


bloody shirt

by wolfchester



Category: The Society (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Gen, Guns, M/M, Peaky Blinders AU, Sexual Content, Swearing, Violence, allie is basically tommy shelby, allie was a nurse in france in ww1 and is a BADASS, bean is basically alfie solomons, campbell is a sociopath, domestic abuse, harry is basically grace burgess, in which new ham is birmingham in 1919, lexie is constable campbell and a total bitch and we love her for it, plot is based off the first season of pb, the head of the pressman-eliot crime family and the leader of the society
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-01-02 21:22:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21168083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfchester/pseuds/wolfchester
Summary: peaky blinders/gangster!au set in 1919allie is the head of ‘the society’, new ham’s most dangerous gang, run by the pressman-eliot family. harry is an ex-soldier and friend of her cousin campbell, brought in to help the family deal with their latest threat - an informant is selling members of the family out to the cops, and no one can figure out who.allie’s ptsd keeps her up at night. will harry be able to stop her nightmares, or will he end up becoming one himself?





	1. an informant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY OKAY YES I STARTED A NEW FIC, SUE ME !!
> 
> i've watched four seasons of peaky blinders in a week and a half and it's been playing on my mind so much that i couldn't HELP but write a hallie fic inspired by the show...(such a fcking good show guys...an absolute must watch)
> 
> i wrote this chapter in like a few hours so you can tell i'm buzzing...i hope you love this 1920s british gangster world with a the society twist as much as i do
> 
> the title is from 'bloody shirt' by to kill a king. worth listening while you read - the bastille remix is especially good 
> 
> this whole fic is dedicated to my beta @still_i_fall, who is always SO encouraging and is helping me make this story Great. and also the og hallie writer and an INSANELY good one at that
> 
> enjoy friends

** _bloody shirt - to kill a king_ **

_ what do you want to do tonight? _

_ i’ve got wounds to lick in life _

_ oh, you’ve said _

_ standing like a stick _

_ this tie could invert and be a noose instead _

_ oh, you lie next to me _

_ heart is beating heavily _

_ there’s blood in your ear though _

_ blood on your shirt _

_ it’s too late to say you’re sorry _

_ i stepped out with heavy heart _

_ to bail you out again _

_ oh, those things you do _

_ get out! and get gone _

_ this town is only gonna get worse _

_ it’s only gonna eat you _

* * *

**new ham / england / 1919**

**eight months after the end of world war one**

* * *

“Allie! Allie! Open the fuck up!”

With a heavy groan, Allie grips the side of the bathtub and pushes herself up and out. Water splashes onto the floor, and she makes a mental note to clean it up later. There’s no need for her flat to be smelling more damp than it already is. The knocking—pounding, rather—on her front door continues, as does the shouting. 

She wraps a satin robe around her body and leans out the open window to find Luke, newsboy cap in his hand and coat unbuttoned, standing by her door. “I’m coming, Luke! Stop knocking!”

Luke’s dark blonde head snaps up and he raises a hand in surrender. “Sorry, Allie. It’s urgent!”

Allie rolls her eyes and ties the robe tight around her waist, then steps away from the window to make her way downstairs. _ They always say it’s urgent _ , she thinks, _ but it rarely ever is. _ Her precious bathwater is getting colder every second she spends away from it.

She opens the door to Luke and sees that he is panting like a dog who’s just run five miles. “What is it? 

Averting his eyes from her partially naked figure, Luke replies, “It’s Will. He’s been arrested.”

“He’s been _ what _?” At the same time as her heart sinks low in her gut, rage bubbles up through her throat. “Why? When?”

“Not sure. The Chief Constable took him in this morning when he went to go open up The Church.” His voice comes out in a rush.

She curses under her breath and closes her eyes, processing this information. “Well, they can’t hold him for no reason. I’ll have to go over there and talk to Pemberton, try to get that bitch to see some sense.” She sighs and leans her head against the doorjamb. “Where the fuck is Grizz when you need him?”

Luke clears his throat. “Grizz was, uh, preoccupied this morning.”

“You mean he was at Sam’s place?” she inquires, raising one dark eyebrow.

The man shifts on his feet, looking uncomfortable. “Uh, yeah. Yes.”

“Oh, come on, Luke, you’re married. You know what it’s like.” Allie reaches up to pinch the bridge of her nose, mentally formulating a plan. “Look, get Sam to bring the car around in twenty minutes, and I’ll go with him to the station. Get Jason and Clark to come, too. We can’t afford to have The Church closed for today, so send your wife over with keys to open it up. Men will be coming in after mass to start racking up all the sins they’ve just repented from. I know Helena won’t like it, but tell her I’ll be there in the afternoon to help her out. Don’t let word get around to anyone outside the family that Will’s been arrested. Okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Luke replies.

“Don’t call me ma’am. You’re older than me.” She makes a shooing motion with her hand. “Now get out of here.”

With a nod, Luke disappears down the street. Allie closes the door and rests her head on the back of it with a moan. Will was arrested? _ Fucking Lexie _, she thinks with contempt for the woman who acts as Chief Constable for the city of New Ham. She’s been out to get Allie for months since she was appointed the top role in the local police force. They’ve never met in person, but Allie’s heard that she’s just some rich girl from Surrey who got bored of her socialite life and wanted some real action as a policewoman. Now she won’t leave Allie or her family alone. 

And she’s got Will, for whatever reason. Maybe she had arrested Will specifically to get to Allie, to hit at her most sensitive point. The man she’s been in unrequited love with for years, and her closest confidant. Everyone knows Will is her weak spot—and the only one the great Allie Pressman has. As the head of the Pressman-Eliot family, and the leader of New Ham’s most dangerous gang, The Society, Allie has a reputation for being tough as fucking nails.

If Lexie really has arrested Will just to get Allie’s attention, it’s working. Allie knows she’ll still go to the station to talk with the Constable, even though she’s being manipulated into it. Love will do that to you.

_ I knew it was a bad idea to get attached, _ Allie thinks as she hurries upstairs to get dressed. _ I knew this would come back to bite me. And he’s not even in fucking love with me. _

This has not been the most ideal start to a Sunday morning.

* * *

The New Ham police station is a run-down thing, with peeling paint and crumbling brick walls. One would think that in a town like this it would be filled to no end with all kinds of crooks and criminals, but it’s, in fact, the opposite. 

The Society are the biggest purveyor of private security in the city, protecting the likes of factory managers against strikes to acting as bodyguards for the local Minister of Parliament. They have almost all of the coppers in New Ham on their payroll, handing them a couple pounds a week each to look the other way every time a race gets fixed, a sympathiser to the Irish Republican Army gets shot behind a bar, a body floats up in the canals. 

No one crosses Allie Pressman or her family. No one dares to. And so, being under the protection of The Society, the city of New Ham and it’s residents are free to go about their business without the risk of being sent to the Big House.

_ Fuck, _ Allie thinks self-righteously as she saunters into the station, _ we do a better job at keeping this city safe than the pigs do. _

“Allie, do you need us to come in with you?” Sam signs, gesturing to the two hulking men standing behind him, as they enter the main office. 

Placing a hand conspicuously on her hip, where under the fabric of her black skirt is hidden a gun in its leather holster, Allie shakes her head and signs back, “I’ll be fine. Stay here.”

The three men nod their acceptance and square their shoulders, standing tall in the middle of the room, staring down any copper who looks at them strangely. Even Sam, who doesn’t exactly have a menacing face (the opposite, really--probably the kindest she’s ever seen), looks fear-inducing in his heavy overcoat and flat cap, the shiny black handle of a Webley .445 peeking out from under the flaps of his coat. 

Pulling out her silver cigarette case from the pocket of her coat, Allie places one in her lipsticked mouth and lights it. She sucks the smoke in and inhales it through her nose, feeling that delicious rush of nicotine to her head. She raps once on the door in front of her that’s labelled _ Chief Constable. _ It opens.

“Miss Pressman.”

“Constable Pemberton.”

Lexie, auburn-haired and stony-faced, looks Allie up and down. “I would say it’s nice to finally meet you, but I think you know it’s not. Lift up your arms.”

With a sigh, Allie does as she asks, and allows herself to be searched for weapons. Of course, the Webley on her hip is found and removed. That’s the one Allie wanted her to find. Wanted her to be aware of the kind of person Allie is and what she represents. (What Lexie doesn’t find, however, is the five-inch knife hid in her stocking, or the razor blade sewn into her velvet hairband.)

Lexie walks over to her desk and sits down in the high-backed chair, placing the gun down on the table. “Close the door. Sit.”

Allie shuts the door behind her but refuses to sit, standing instead in the centre of the room with her hands in her coat pockets. She has perfected the art of appearing powerful and in control even with her petite figure and curly blonde hair. In fact, she often uses the perception of innocence to throw people--enemies--off before she whips off her headband and uses it to slice a line across their eyes.

It doesn’t work with Lexie.

“You want to tell me why the fuck Will LeClair is in police custody right now?”

“I’d watch your words with me, Miss Pressman,” Lexie says with a grimace. “I don’t know what kind of cops you’re used to dealing with, but I can guarantee they’re nothing like me.”

Allie shifts her weight to rest on her left foot, and lifts a hand to take a puff of her cigarette. “What kind of copper _ are _you, then, Constable?”

“Not the kind that accepts bribes from members of street gangs, that’s for sure.”

“I’d say The Society is a little more than a ‘street gang’, Constable. But I think you know that already.”

The silence that stretches between them is indicative of the affirmative. Lexie’s stare is cold and hard, as is the glare Allie flings right back. “Tell me why you’ve arrested Will, or I’ll call my lawyer,” Allie says, voice filling the room but not breaking the tension in it.

“Your lawyer!” Lexie laughs. “You mean this?” She holds up the revolver and cocks it mockingly. “LeClair was arrested because of his association with illegal bookmaking. Amongst other things.”

_ Illegal bookmaking! Fucking hell. _ Allie has always been careful, since she returned from the war and took over the running of The Society, to make sure that Will was only ever involved in the legitimate side of the family business--managing the pub and sometimes helping with legal bets--to keep him out of this kind of thing. He’d only been involved in one race fixing once, months ago. Why is it only coming up now? And how did Lexie know about it?

“What do you want from me?” Allie asks, keeping her voice level. 

Lexie smiles, cruel and tight-lipped. “I don’t want anything from you, Miss Pressman. At least not right now.” She stands up from her desk and walks slowly around to rest her forearms against the top of it, close to Allie, gaze fixed on her face. Lexie pulls out her own case of cigarettes and lights one, blowing the smoke into Allie’s face. The shorter woman doesn’t flinch. Lexie takes another puff and speaks again in a low, threatening voice. “You know that if I have you arrested and sent to hang, as I have wished to do ever since I arrived in New Ham and was commissioned by the Home Secretary himself to eliminate all gang activity in this awful fucking town, those pit bulls out there you call bodyguards will kill me. And if they don’t kill me, the rest of your ‘family’, or whatever you call it, will hunt me down and make sure I regret ever tying a noose around your pretty little neck.” She takes another puff of the cigarette. Allie’s hands clench into fists in the pockets of her coat, and she itches to pull the knife from its sheath on her thigh and slice this woman’s throat. “That is why I will pick off every single person you hold close--your cousins, your pit bulls, your friends, your friends’ wives, _ everyone _\--until it is only you left. Then, once I have taken everything from you--your people, your business, the misplaced trust the public have in you--I will kill you. And that is a promise.”

The words leave a chill in the air, and a shiver running up Allie’s spine. No matter how much Allie wants to believe the opposite, this much is clear: Constable Pemberton is not a cop to be fucked with. 

_ Well, good _ , thinks Allie as she reaches past Lexie to take back her revolver and slide it into its holster. _ I’m not to be fucked with either. _

“I’ll be seeing you soon, Miss Pressman,” comes Lexie’s voice at her back as Allie turns on a boot heel and exits the room.

* * *

“So, you met with Pemberton,” Campbell says, kicking his feet up on the desk that Allie sits behind. She doesn’t bother to ask him to take his boots off the mahogany wood, because she knows he won’t. 

They’re in her office on Cook Street, smack bang in the middle of The Society’s jurisdiction--half a mile from The Church, with all the family’s apartments in walking distance. Behind the double doors in the corner of the office is the gambling den where the Pressman-Eliot family makes their money. Kelly, Gordie, and Helena are in there right now, taking calls from punters betting on the horses that will race this weekend. It’s common knowledge that many of these races are fixed, but gamblers young and old still love the thrill of putting money on a horse. 

And The Society is kind. Allie wants to look after the citizens of New Ham--their business, after all, relies on the healthy fear and smidge of trust built between the gangsters and the commoners--and so makes sure that the races are sometimes fixed in favour of the people. 

“Yes, I did. What a total bitch,” Allie grumbles, yanking the stopper out of a whiskey bottle and pouring herself a glass. “You want one?” she asks, offering up a drink to her cousin, which he takes.

“Did you find out why she arrested Will?”

The liquor sears her throat as it goes down and she grimaces. She pulls out a cigarette and lights it, taking one long drag before speaking. “Said it was for illegal bookmaking, but we know that’s bullshit. I think someone’s been tipping her off about us. She’s got some plan, she says, on how to take me down. To kill me, or whatever.” Allie tucks a short lock of blonde hair behind her ear and sighs, taking another puff of her smoke. “She’s batshit.”

“I’ll bet.” Campbell empties the glass down his throat and pours another one in quick succession. “We should get crystal,” he says, inspecting the scratched whiskey glass, turning it around in his hand.

“We can’t afford crystal. _ Yet, _” she replies, looking at him pointedly. He grins, and like it always is with Campbell, it doesn’t reach his eyes. When he smiles, he looks like he’s pretending. Like he’s not quite human; an alien masquerading as one, maybe. It’s in the way he talks, the way he walks, the way he laughs. Allie doesn’t see any danger in it, though. He’s her cousin. She’s known him her whole life.

“I’ve got a friend. From the army. We fought in France together,” he says, swirling the liquor around in his glass. “You said you think someone is tipping Lexie off about our business, huh?” Allie nods. “This guy was a private detective before he got drafted into the infantry. He knows his stuff.”

“And what would we need a private detective for? We’ve got Grizz and half the New Ham police force on our side. We’re safe.”

Campbell clears his throat after taking a swig of his drink. “I’m not so sure. You said it yourself earlier: Lexie’s not just out to take you down, she’s out to kill you. We don’t wanna fuck with that.”

“We’re The Fucking Society, Campbell. We can fuck with anything we want,” Allie says, tipping the edge of her mouth up into a grin. Her cousin chuckles in return. “What can this army boy do for us, then?”

“He can do some research for us, figure out who it might be in the area that is selling out information about our business to Pemberton. There’s not many people who would dare to do so. Bean, maybe? Gangs from London?”

“Bean?” Allie scrunches up her nose. Bean Akkad was the leader of a Muslim gang in the nearby town of West Ham. The Pakistani woman was tiny but fearless, and served as a nurse in Belgium. Allie’s heard stories that Bean picked up a gun once against the orders of her superiors and picked off a couple of Germans who were encroaching on the British trenches in which she was administering first aid. She owns a rum distillery in West Ham that operates under the guise of a bakery, and goes by the nickname ‘The Baker.’ Allie has a lot of respect for her, actually, and is surprised by the thought that it may be the Muslim woman who is working against them. “You really think she’d come for us? I thought we had an agreement.”

Campbell raises an eyebrow and moves his feet off the desk to instead lean forward, closer to Allie. “You can’t trust anyone anymore, Allie. The war changed everyone.” _ And isn’t that the truth. _ “Look, Allie, Harry Bingham is the only choice we have.”

“Only? Really?”

“I trust him.”

She snubs out the stub of her cigarette in a pewter dish. “And how much is your trust worth these days, Campbell?”

The man sighs and reaches up to push dark hair away from his forehead. He’s sweating. “Do you want Will out or not?”

“Of course I do,” Allie sighs. “Fine. If you say this Harry Bingham is trustworthy, then he is. I’m going to call a family meeting.”

Campbell stands up and brushes cigarette ash off of his suit trousers. “No need,” he says with confidence. “I’ve already called him. He’s on a train to New Ham from London now.”

For the second time today, she presses her index finger and thumb to the inside of her eyes and groans. “Christ, Campbell. Are you forgetting your fucking place in this family? We always consult the others. _ Always _.”

If the words hurt him, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he gathers up his overcoat and shrugs it over his shoulders. “Not this time, cousin. I knew you’d say yes. One could say that I know you better than you know yourself.” He leaves the room with a wink goodbye. 

Allie watches the doors slam shut with an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, unsure if it’s because of her worries about Will or about how Campbell went behind her back to call this Harry Bingham fellow.

_He better be fucking helpful. _ Will’s life, and the future of the Pressman-Eliot family, may very well depend on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave a comment below telling me what you thought about this! or send me a message/ask on tumblr! as with un immense amour, i'm so happy to give people little sneak peek spoilers for coming chapters if they just. can't. wait.
> 
> next chapter: harry and allie meet for the first time


	2. playing barmaid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short chapter (as most of these will be) but hopefully a good one just the same........be introduced to ex-soldier / private detective harry fckin bingham -- and allie, being a badass, as always

The glasses clink together as Allie stacks them back on their rack, the only sound in the room. She kicked out the last drunk old men from The Church not too long ago. They’re yet to find a replacement bartender with Will in prison, so Allie, perhaps foolishly, volunteered to play barmaid in the meantime. As if she doesn’t have enough on her plate already.

But she doesn’t trust anyone else to look after the pub--the one she inherited after her father died a year ago; after Cassandra died in the mud of the Somme. It’s special, this place. Aptly named, it’s a pub built into an old church complete with stained glass windows and a crucifix above the door. Blasphemous? Maybe. Helena, Luke’s wife, hates it. She’s a stout Catholic and actually practices the religion, unlike the rest of them. Allie admires her for it. It takes a lot of faith to believe in a God when you live in a place like this.

Allie likes The Church, though, and thinks if Jesus himself was going to visit New Ham, this would be the first place he’d come to. Even just for a laugh.

She’s still cleaning glasses when the front door opens. “We’re closed. Come back tomorrow.”

“Allison Pressman?”

Her head whips up to see the person addressing her by her full name and finds an unfamiliar man standing underneath the crucifix. Not too tall, not too built, but not thin or weak looking either. Skin that looks soft, like he comes from money and doesn’t have to work. Thick, dark hair curling around his ears. A strong jaw, mouth set in a thin line. Dressed in a smart grey suit, gold pocket watch chain glinting in the light of the bar, flat cap off his head and held in one hand. Undoubtedly handsome. 

“Who’s asking?” she says, setting the last pint glass away and tucking the towel into the pocket of her apron. 

“I’m sorry, I know you’re closed, but—” he reaches up to nervously scratch the back of his head. “Campbell said this is where I would find you, and—“

“Ah. Harry Bingham, right?”

He looks relieved at being recognised. “Yes. That’s me.” He takes a step forward into the room. “Could I have a drink?” His voice is smooth and silky, and he smiles sheepishly, but like he knows what he’s doing. He’s a charmer, that much she can gather.

“I said we were closed,” Allie replies, even as she reaches for two clean glasses and a bottle of scotch. Harry looks taken aback for a moment, but smiles when she starts to pour, and takes a seat at a bar stool. He thanks her when she hands him a glass and takes one long sip. Allie does the same.

They don’t say too much for a few minutes, but it’s surprisingly not so awkward. They drink, and smoke, and he makes some comment about the quality of the whiskey and she makes some joke in return about the softness of his hands.

“Hey,” he says with a wink, like they’re already friends. “I know I don’t look it, but I’ve had my fair share of hard work.” Harry gets a faraway look in his eyes then, overwhelming the light tone of his voice. He blinks and it’s gone. 

Allie knows that look well. “Did you fight?” she asks, already knowing the answer, sucking in a breath of smoke from her cigarette.

“Yes,” he replies, and finishes the rest of his drink. “France.” 

“Ah.”

“Did you?”

“Fight?” she shakes her head. “Not exactly. I was a nurse.”

“In France?”

“Yes.” She laughs, short and sarcastic. “This is a very lively conversation, isn’t it?”

Harry drops his head with a chuckle. “I’m sorry,” he says, and it sounds sincere. “It’s been a long day of travelling.”

“You’ve come from London?”

“Yes. I’ve never been this far up north before. Been to fucking France and back,” he sighs wearily, “but never north of London.”

Allie bends down to lean her elbows against the wooden bar top. It’s sticky under her skin. “Why did you agree to come to New Ham? No family or anyone waiting for you at home?” She’s not sure exactly why she asked the second question.

“No. No, it’s just me.” He runs a finger around the rim of his now-empty glass. While he’s not looking at her, Allie studies his face. She finds that it’s not as soft-looking as she first thought. There are creases around his mouth, lines under his eyes, a pink scar on one cheek, freckles across his nose. “In all honesty,” he says, “I was bored. I tried to go back to my old job as a private investigator but an older man had taken it from me while I was off in France. I was stuck working in the office instead, a glorified secretary. Not much of a life. Got a call from Campbell saying he had a job for me up here. And I took the next train out of London.”

She tilts her head and squints at him, like she’s trying to figure him out. “You know what we do, then?” she says slowly. “You know who we are?” _ You know what I am? You know what I have done, what I could do? You know I have a gun at my back and a knife on my thigh, and a whole army out there on the streets? You know I watched my sister and a thousand men die in that fucking French mud? You know I’ve killed men for owing me money, for looking at me the wrong way? _

“You work with horses,” he says carefully, but the hard line of his jaw proves that he knows exactly what’s she’s asking, and understands. 

“Good." She pushes away from the bar top and takes their glasses, turning her back to him and washing them in the steel sink. “You’ll report to Campbell at the office in the morning. I’m in the process of organising a safe place for you to stay while you’re here, but in the meantime you can sleep at my flat. 225 Cook Street, just down the lane."

“Isn’t that a bit...improper?” comes Harry’s voice at her back.

She turns to him with raised eyebrows. “I thought you said you knew who I was?” What she’s really saying is this: _ no one will bat an eyelid because I’m Allie fucking Pressman, and what I say, goes. _He nods and twists his mouth into a smile. She continues. “You’ll stay downstairs. You keep to your business, I’ll keep to mine.” Allie reaches under the counter to find the Harrington & Richardson she’d brought for him and hands the pistol to Harry. “You’ll need this.” He takes it from her without flinching at the sight of the weapon and slides it into his jacket.

Allie steps around the bar, grabs the keys, and moves toward the door. Harry follows her out. Just before they step outside into the darkness of Cook Street, a metaphorical and literal darkness punctuated with flashes of light from the furnace fires in the factories, she turns to him and smiles.

“Welcome to the fuckin’ Society, Mr Bingham.”


	3. family meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a bit of an intro to all the characters and the world we’re going to be a part of for the next wee while - i wanted to start this fic off with some action, and THEN get into the introductions - so this isn’t the most action packed chapter but i hope you love reading about these c. 1919 gangster versions of the characters we all know n love
> 
> this story has LITERALLY just been pouring out of me i love it so much i hope u enjoy. no harry this chap but he's coming back i promise

The noise levels inside the gambling den (“Company Offices”, as Gordie insists on calling them) are, as they are every day, far too high. It gives Allie a headache, one that starts as soon as she walks through the door but suddenly disappears when Kelly, the treasurer, tells her how much money they made on the races over the weekend.

“We’re making one-fifty a day now, Allie,” Kelly says, looking up at her from behind spectacles. “We made profits on the weekend and yesterday, and this coming week is looking good.” She’s sitting at her desk in the middle of the busy room, paper stacks up to her elbows, still sifting through cash from the weekend. Even with the stress of this job, Kelly still manages to look fresh-faced and beautiful, always clad in dresses that hug her body perfectly with her long brown hair fashionably curled. Allie met Kelly when they were at school and they served in France as nurses together. If Kelly hadn’t fallen in love with Will, if she hadn’t stumbled into this dark life they’re all a part of, Allie imagines she’d have had an incredible career as a midwife. 

The only tension between the two of them is the knowledge that Allie has been in love with Will for as far back as she can remember, and that Will has been in love with Kelly for equally as long. The war dampened part of this passion down for Allie--snuffed out a lot of things in her heart, really--but the ache of longing still lingers.

And now Will’s in fucking prison, and it’s all Allie’s fault.

“Good to hear, Kelly,” Allie replies, patting her goodnaturedly on her shoulder. She shrugs off her overcoat and drapes it over an empty chair, then reaches in her skirt pocket to find a cigarette. “How are you doing?”

Kelly, understanding that Allie is asking about her boyfriend, offers her a small smile. “It’s hard, I’ll admit it, but I know things are going to be okay. You’ll get him out, right?”

“That I will.” And with everything in her, Allie hopes to a God she doesn’t believe in that she can fulfill that promise.

She walks through the room as she smokes, checking up on how business for this Tuesday morning is running. 

On the desk next to Kelly is Helena, who is taking calls from betters on the single telephone they own. As usual, she’s wearing red lipstick and a crucifix around her neck. Allie knows Helena only helps out the family at the request of her husband, as her religious beliefs don’t look kindly on gambling. _ I’ll man the phones, but I won’t touch the money _ , Helena said when she first came to work for the Pressman-Eliot Company, _ and I won’t be considered a member of The Society. _ Even though she doesn’t support the illegal side of the business (ironic, since her husband is one of the ‘pit bulls’ Constable Lexie had mocked), she’s a good sort--kind, loyal, yet takes no bullshit from any of the men who come into the den and try to talk their way out of paying their debts. Sometimes, Helena and Luke’s son Alfie joins her at the desk when school is not in session, and although this kind of place is certainly not suitable for children, no one can deny that the presence of such a sweet little kid like the Holbrook boy brightens everyone’s days.

Her husband, Luke, sits opposite her. He’s currently managing a long line of men looking to place wagers on the horses that are running tomorrow afternoon. With the family currently not owning any licenses for legal bookies at the races themselves, they are the leaders in off-track betting in the area, taking bets from anyone unable to take time off work to go and watch the races in person (which is most of the working class part of town, really). It’s loud and frustrating work, dealing with burly, half-drunk men who feel they’re getting ripped off. Thankfully, all Luke has to do when someone challenges him is to stand up and crack his knuckles, and the coins go plonking into the tin. He works with bets until Campbell calls him out to work the streets with him, hunting down anyone who dared to cross The Society or providing protection to certain important people. 

Then there’s Gordie, standing up by the chalkboard at one end of the room, correcting the odds on bets for tomorrow’s races. He looks haggard, as he always does, hair a mess, spectacles dangling on a chain around his neck, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, sweat on his brow. Gordie is in charge of all the Company’s business around horse racing. He communicates with the riders and the owners of the horses to discuss “business arrangements” (drugging horses and paying off jockeys, that is) and makes sure no one thinks the Pressman-Eliot’s are cheating their betters in any way--even though they technically are. 

“Oh, Allie! There you are,” Gordie calls as he realises his boss is in the room. “Sam has been asking for you.”

“Where is he?”

“Office,” he says, pointing to a closed door to the side of the room. Behind the window, Allie can see Sam scribbling furiously into a ledger.

She strides over and enters the smaller room, shutting the door with a slam. Sam’s head whips up to greet hers as he feels the vibration of the sound through the wood of his desk.

“Allie! Just the person I wanted to see,” he signs with a grimace.

She takes a seat in one of the leather chairs in front of his desk. “What is it?”

Sam runs a hand tiredly through his ginger hair. “I received an update on Will from Grizz. It’s not looking good,” he signs, and a lump forms in Allie’s throat.

“What happened?” she signs back.

“They’re pushing up his sentencing. He could go before the court in the next three or so months.”

“The court! Since when have the fucking New Ham police ever actually trialed someone in court!” she exclaims, forgetting to sign it to Sam. He can understand what she’s meaning by her body language, though, and tilts his head, watery blue eyes sending a smile her way.

“We’ll get him out, Allie. Grizz is already working on it,” he signs. 

She presses her palms into her eye sockets. “Fuck,” she mumbles. “And it’s all my fault,” she signs to Sam. “I should have never let him get involved, even with the smallest fucking things.”

“You don’t have control over what he does and doesn’t do, Allie,” Sam signs. “Kelly’s working for us--it makes sense that Will would want to be a part of it, too.”

Allie sighs. She knows he’s right. Something Cassandra often said to her when she’d get frustrated over math problems in school echoes in her mind right now: _ You’re too hard on yourself, Allie. You need to give yourself a break or you’re gonna explode. _

A break. Yeah, right. Allie hasn’t taken a break since the day she stepped on that hospital ship headed for Calais; since the day she watched her sister get shot in the stomach and fall face down in the mud; since the day she walked back through the doors of Pressman-Eliot Company as the woman in charge. There’s no such thing as a _ break _ for a person like Allie. It’s all going and going and going, pushing forward, searching for that big break, that ultimate amount of money that’s finally going to propel her and her family over that glass divide between the working and the middle class like she’s always dreamed. 

Sam, who knows her better than anyone, leans over the desk to take hold of her hand and say out loud in his stitled voice, “It’s going to be okay.”

Her oldest friend, he’s always been able to tell what she’s feeling, even when she doesn’t know how to express it. Sam, Campbell, Allie and Cassandra were raised together like siblings, although their genetic makeup registers them cousins. Well, they more like raised themselves. The girls’ mother died in childbirth with Allie, their dad died fighting in Belgium, the boys’ mother abandoned them when they found out Sam was deaf, and their father drank himself to death a year after the war started. They’ve all had a shitty childhood, and they’re all working together now as adults to make sure their future kids have one that’s not so fucking awful.

Sam works as the deputy director of the company and the chief accountant. Due to his deafness, Sam was unable to serve in the army, and so stayed behind in New Ham to run the family business—illegal (horse racing, gambling) and legal (The Church, protection, liquor exporting)—while the other three were off serving on the continent. In the four years he spent as head of the family, he developed a relationship with local policeman Gareth ‘‘Grizz’’ Visser. When Grizz was a kid, he got his left leg trapped under the wheel of a cart and had to have it amputated. Therefore, he was also unable—much to his regret—to serve in the Great War, which left him as one of the few young men in New Ham while the rest were off dying in Europe. An unlikely pairing, Grizz and Sam fell in love over the course of those four years. Now, Grizz works as a liaison between the family and the police, tipping them off to potential raids and advising Allie on the ways she can turn her business legal. In another life—one where Grizz didn’t have such a strong moral compass—he would have been right in the thick of it with the rest of them.

“I trust Grizz,” Allie signs. “And you.”

Her cousin smiles, one much sweeter and genuine than his brother could ever give, and signs, “I have some good news, too. Not just bad. Kelly may have told you already, but we have been making good money the past few weeks.”

“Good,” Allie signs. “Charlie has been winning the past few days. He’s due to lose tomorrow: Gordie’s organised it already. Coordinate with Kelly and make sure there’s enough loose cash in the treasury to pay out bets easily tomorrow afternoon. And donate some of the winnings from the weekend to the children’s home down the road on Watery Lane.”

Sam smiles wistfully. “Cassandra taught you well,” he signs. 

Allie grins. “She did.” She stands up from the chair and opens the door, gesturing for Sam to stand up and exit with her. Once the two of them are out in the main room, Allie claps her hands to call everyone to attention. The busy hum that has filled the room since the doors opened to betters this morning stops.

“Family meeting in my office, now. The rest of you, piss off!”

* * *

They may not all be blood relatives, but the people who stand in Allie’s office are family through and through. Sam, Kelly, Gordie, Luke and Helena. All loyal friends. She’d trust any of them with her life.

Before Allie gets a chance to speak, Helena’s soft voice interrupts her. “Oh, Allie, I thought I would mention before we started,” she says, signing at the same time for Sam’s benefit. “We need a new barkeeper for The Church, will Will being...you know…”

Sam clears his throat to get everyone’s attention, then signs. “Becca. Becca Gelb.”

“Becca Gelb?” Helena scoffs. “She’s a whore, Sam. And I’m not just saying that--she’s _ literally _a prostitute.”

Sam shakes his head and signs, “She’s done with all that now. She got pregnant.”

“Pregnant?” Gordie exclaims. “Poor girl.”

“Exactly,” Sam signs. “She’s desperate for money.” He turns to Allie. “Please, Allie. She needs a job somewhere safe.”

One could say The Church wasn’t exactly the most desirable place for a pregnant woman to work, but then again with it being under the protection of The Society it was likely one of the safest in town. “Alright,” Allie agrees. “But you can organise it, Sam, since you know her.” He nods, and she continues to speak. “Where’s Campbell, anyway? And Jason and Clark?” She sinks down into her high-backed leather chair and lights a cigarette. She may be the smallest in stature out of the group, but she looks absolutely lethal behind that desk, green blouse contrasting with the brown leather of her gun holster, with the sharp blue of her eyes.

Luke answers. “Out running surveillance on Bean Akkad’s factories in West Ham. Campbell said it was on some private business ordered by you.”

“Yes, well, that was why I asked you all in here.” Allie clears her throat. “Campbell and I have reason to believe that there is someone in the city informing on us--perhaps it’s why Will was arrested. The new Chief Constable is a piece of work. We decided we needed outside help on this, so we hired a private investigator.” 

The room erupts into confused chatter. “We’ve never needed help from someone outside the family before,” Gordie says. “Why now?"

Sam elbows him in the side. “Hey!” he signs. “Grizz has been helpful to us.”

Everyone laughs. “Yeah, only to you, Sam,” Kelly jokes with a grin.

“Yeah, yeah, alright, I know it’s strange,” Allie says, lifting her hands in surrender. “But this is serious. Business is going well right now and none of us have extra time to be doing any kind of detective work. We don’t want anyone else going to prison to join Will. Harry Bingham’s his name, and he’s going to help us.”

“Wait--did you say Harry _ Bingham _?” Kelly exclaims. ‘My God, we went to school together when we were kids in Blackheath. How’d you get him to New Ham?”

Allie explains how Campbell fought with Harry in France, and how he used to be a private investigator before the war. She mentions that Harry will be staying with her while he’s in New Ham, which get a side-eye from Sam, like he’s asking _ are you sure that’s wise? _ to which she raises an eyebrow back as if to say _ you really think I’ve got anything to worry about? _

No one seems too keen on the idea of inviting a stranger into their world--one reliant on secrecy and trust--but they certainly trust Allie, which is what she was counting on. 

“We’re not going to let some fuckin’ copper who’s just rolled into town shut us down, alright?” Allie says, raising her voice and riling up the others in the room. “It’s not fucking happening!”

There’s a chorus of _ damn right it’s not _ and _ fucking coppers! _ and Allie’s chest swells with pride. This is _ her _ town. These are _ her _people. Lexie Pemberton is not going to change a thing. She’ll get Will out of prison somehow, and Harry will help them figure out whatever way Lexie is getting her information.

As Sam said, it will all be okay. And fuck it, if she doesn’t want to believe him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes helena and luke have a kid and yes i named him after alfie solomons (from the real pb show) bc why not
> 
> and fyi everyone here is obviously older than teenagers...they’re all mid-late 20s ok i haven’t clarified that yet but i figure it’s kinda important eek
> 
> and fun activity for anyone reading who's watched the series -- see if you can identify which peaky blinders character's jobs and personalities i've merged w the society.........like, obvs allie is tommy shelby.....what ELSE let's see if u can guess it will be fun xoxo


	4. dreaming of france

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i am so sorry this is soooo late. my bad !! and i can't even say it's because i've been working on 'un immense amour'.....i've just been lazy......and watching too much of skam belgium LOL
> 
> i hope you enjoy this chapter, and my annoyingly super out-of-character harry and allie lol but hey whadda ya gonna do
> 
> i liked writing this anyway xoxo

_ “Get out of here, Allie! Go!” _

_ “I can’t! I can’t leave you!” _

_ Shells soar overhead, firing from three sides, bursting just yards away. They’re not supposed to be here. They shouldn’t be this close. They’re nurses, for goodness sake; they should have never been this close.  _

_ But Cassandra—the fucking saint—couldn’t leave this man to die. And now they’re both in danger, toeing the line between life and death in that awful no-man’s-land where every gunshot, every explosion, threatens to push the two of them over that line and into the pits of hell. _

_ Because that’s where Allie’s going, she’s sure of it. A woman like her’s got no place in heaven. _

_ “Get out of here, Allie!” her older sister repeats. “I’ve got it covered. Get to shelter, now!” _

_ The rain is blinding, wind rushing, boots sinking deep into the stinking mud. The man on the ground below them groans as Cassandra pulls the bandage tight around his chest. Red blood blossoms through the white; her hands are dripping in the stuff. _

_ “I’m not leaving you here with him, Cass! It’s too dangerous!” Allie feels like she’s yelling, and yelling, and yelling but her sister isn’t paying attention, isn’t listening, and her throat is hoarse and her feet are sinking and— _

_ A shot rings out. Then another, and another, and Cassandra is falling facedown into the mud and Allie is screaming and falling too, ducking for cover, a searing pain in her hip, and the man who was moaning in pain is silent now because he’s dead and Cassandra is too she’s dead she’s dead she’s fucking dead, or dying, or what does it matter— _

_ “Cass! Cassandra!” No answer no fucking answer no breath coming out of those lungs just blonde hair fanned out over the mud and a bullethole in her back. A bullet in Allie, too, in her hip, but she doesn’t notice because her sister—protector, leader, best friend, fucking Amazon woman—is going, going, gone.  _

_ The rain is still falling when Allie pushes herself up onto her knees, wincing at the pain in her side, eyes searching for a way out of here. Enemy trenches on one side, safety on the other. She starts to crawl through the mud, but then there’s a voice that sounds vaguely like her sister’s—which doesn’t make sense, because Allie just watched her die.  _

_ Then the blonde head stuck in that filthy French mud is turning on its neck, lifeless eyes staring up at Allie, and the disembodied voice is growling, “You wanna be in charge, Allie? Well, you’re the fucking boss now, sister! You’re the fucking boss!” Then Cassandra’s eyes are rolling back in their sockets and worms, maggots, are crawling out of them and—wait—that’s not— _

“Fuck!” 

Allie jerks awake in bed and sucks in a hard breath, like she’s been underwater for a long time and is only now coming up to the surface. She rubs her palm over her forehead and finds it’s slick with cold sweat.

Shit.

Another nightmare.

_ The smoke’s supposed to make this better, not worse, _ Allie thinks, staring daggers at the opium pipe on her nightstand. Like many men and women who were on the front lines, the drug is the only thing that helps them get to sleep most nights, quieting the noises in their head. Evidently, it doesn’t always work.

So Cassandra dies all over again. The maggots she’s dreamt before; the voice was new. Allie’s had enemy soldiers gutting her alive, a bomb exploding Cassandra into little pieces, even once a dinosaur marching through the trenches for fuck’s sake—but Cassandra’s corpse has never talked in her dreams. Nightmares. Whatever.

What was it she said?  _ You wanna be in charge? Well, you’re the boss now! _ And she’d yelled it so aggressively, so tauntingly. Like the whole thing was Allie’s fault. Like Allie had wished it.

What Allie may or may not have wished when she was younger—while watching their father teach Cassandra how to balance the books, how to fire a gun, how to defend herself, how to cut a man across his eyes with a razor—is not even close to what her life is now.

She got the business, sure, and the power and notoriety that comes with running the most dangerous gang in New Ham. But Father has been gone two years now, and Cassandra almost three, and every day Allie grows more and more tired of the black smoke of this city.

And of these fucking nightmares.

With a sigh, Allie rolls over in bed and sits up on the edge of it, cradling her head in her hands. She exhales a deep breath and pushes herself up until she’s standing, unsteadily, barefoot on the wooden floor. 

Tea. She needs tea.

The house is cold—typical of New Ham in the summertime—and almost pitch-black dark. Lighting a lamp would be too much of a hassle, so Allie finds her way down the hallway by touch alone. She pads down the stairs to the kitchen, but stops with a start when she sees a peculiar-looking shadow on the wall. A dark blob, hunched over something, sitting in a chair.

_ Surely, no one’s sending anyone around here this time of night _ —e _ ven the bad guys have to sleep _ , she thinks, also aware that many would perhaps consider herself and her family as these so-called villains.

Nevertheless, Allie feels her way around the corner into the kitchen and finds that there is indeed a man at her table. Without making a sound, Allie reaches for the knife holder she knows is on the counter by the doorway and wraps her palm around the handle of the largest one. It slides out of the wood with a metallic  _ shick _ and the man in the chair turns his head. Allie raises the knife, ready to strike, then—

“Allie?”

“Fuck!” she breathes, lowering the weapon. “You scared me.”

Harry whips around to see her standing there at the entrance to the room, knife in hand. He raises his hands in surrender, cup of tea dropping to the table in a clatter, mouth open in surprise. “Shit, I’m sorry, I was just making some tea,” he says. “Did I wake you up?”

Allie shakes her head no, then sighs and puts the knife back in its place. “Is the kettle still hot?” Harry nods. “Good.” He turns back to his tea with another wary look cast in her direction. She moves past him to the stove, grabbing a cup and filling it with hot tea. 

“What are you doing up so late?” she asks, leaning against the counter and sipping her drink, elbows resting on the wood.

Harry lifts his head to come eye-to-eye with her, his face lit by the blue light of the moon, and Allie knows it would be futile to ignore the way her heart jumps she looks at him. Smooth skin, soft lips, long eyelashes, that beautiful dark hair, a brush of stubble on his cheeks. He’s handsome and he knows it, lifting a corner of his mouth as he notices her staring at him.

What’s a girl to do? Finding him attractive isn’t a crime, is it?

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says with that lazy half-smile.

“Ah.” She pushes off the counter and goes to sit opposite him at the table. The wooden seat is cold against her bare legs, and for a moment she wishes she’d put on something else other than her rumpled nightgown, something that covered her shoulders and her legs up a bit more, but she throws that thought away as soon as it arrives in her mind. Allie Pressman does not get self-conscious, especially in front of a man. Who is in her employ, by the way. He has no power over her.

That smile is pretty alright, though.

“You?”

“Neither.”

Harry looks down at his now-empty cup and runs a finger around the rim of it. After a breath, he confesses, “I don’t sleep. Or, at least not well.”

And doesn’t she know that feeling? “I haven’t had a full night’s sleep since 1916,” she says with a grimace. “Too many dreams. Mind keeps running a mile a minute.”

He pursues his lips in something like a sympathetic smile, and reaches for the kettle to pour himself another cup of tea, offering her a refill, too, which she takes. “What do you dream about?” he asks as he pours.

“I’ll give you one guess.”

“Ah. Right. Same as me, then.”

“Same as a lot of people, I’ll bet.” Watching Harry sip his tea, Allie is struck by curiosity. She really knows nothing about this man who now lives in her house and is under her employment, and she wants to find out. “What’s your story, then?” she asks, not bothering to beat around the bush. It’s too early in the morning for pleasantries.

To his credit, Harry doesn’t shy away from such a direct question. “Well, I enlisted when I was twenty-three and was gone for two years. When I came back, the world had changed.” He sets his cup down on the table and leans back in the chair, stretching his arms above his head. A sliver of pale skin shows along his lower torso as his nightshirt rides up. Allie swallows. “My job was gone. My family was gone: Mum’s been gone for a long time, Dad died while I was away, and my sister, Sara—I haven’t seen her in years.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “She ran away to Ireland with a boy who got her pregnant before the war. And you know the story of how I got to New Ham, so that’s all.” 

“Hmm,” Allie hums, looking at him over the edge of her tea cup as she takes another long sip. “So you’ve come here with nothing to lose, huh? What are you getting out of this arrangement?” She raises an eyebrow. “I’m assuming my cousin is paying you.”

“That he is,” Harry replies with a shrug and a grin. “But, uh, other than that, I don’t know, really. Helping out an old mate. Bit of an adventure.” He lifts his cup one last time to empty the dregs of the tea and Allie admires the way the moonlight hits his throat so perfectly, watches him swallow, feels a rush of  _ something _ to the pit of her stomach. First, she thinks,  _ how can someone look so fucking good while drinking tea?  _ Then she thinks,  _ listen to you talk like that, Allie, you idiot. You need to get laid. And no, not Harry. That would be a fucking disaster.  _

Before she can let her sleep-addled brain go any further down that dangerous track, Harry’s voice pulls her back to the present.

“What about you?” he asks. ”Campbell told me you had a sister.”

Here she is, sitting barefoot in her nightgown, sharing a pot of tea with this fellow she barely knows, about to spill her guts to him. What is it about this man that makes her want to talk? She knows she shouldn’t—especially to someone who is  _ basically _ a cop—but there’s something...

It’s cold, and she’s tired, and the sun will be up in an hour or two, and Harry feels safe. He feels like someone she can talk to. She hasn’t spoken about Cassandra in so long, her voice feels rusty just saying her name.

“Yes. Cassandra,” she says with a sigh. “I lived in her shadow when I was a kid. God, she was beautiful.” She speaks slowly, delicately, letting herself be taken back in time by this story she’s telling about her sister, lets herself feel nostalgic, sentimental, whatever. “So fucking smart, too. And she had this edge, this sharpness to her—no one fucked with her. She was the fucking Queen of New Ham, I swear to God.” 

Harry chuckles at that.  _ The Queen of New Ham _ . And she was. She walked the streets of this dirty city like she owned it, the mink fur their Dad bought for her twenty-first birthday draped around her neck at all times. 

“But she was kind, too. Kinder than the rest of us,” Allie remembers with a smile. She chances a glance over at Harry and finds he’s watching her with a wistful gaze, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Dad was training her up to take over the business before we left for France. I used to wish that he would give me the same kind of attention he gave her. I used to—“ Allie clears her throat. “I used to wish she would disappear. Not to die, just—to be gone for a little while. So I could be important again. Can you believe that?” The room, the night, the streets outside, are so quiet, and Allie feels so vulnerable. But the way Harry is looking at her makes it all feel okay.  _ “ _ And then—well, the war.”

“Yes,” Harry says. “The war.” He looks down at his empty cup and Allie gets a sudden feeling that there’s a lot he’s not telling her. “How did your sister pass?”

“Shot in the gut in Verdun,” Allie replies, straight to the point. Harry flinches slightly at her bluntness, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. She leans back in her chair and tips her head to the ceiling, closing her eyes. “Sometimes I think I died there with her.” Harry doesn’t reply, for which Allie is grateful, and she speaks again with eyes still shut. “I didn’t know it at the time. But I did. No one came back the same. I feel like maybe, I didn’t come back at all.” She feels her throat become scratchy, like something is stuck there, and if she were a more emotional woman she may have shed a tear. But she’s not. 

She opens her eyes with a sigh and looks back across the table at Harry. “Fucking hell!” she exclaims with a bittersweet smile. “Look at me. Telling you stories about my life like I’m an old gossiping washerwoman. What did you put in this tea?”

He grins. “Who else to tell your secrets to than a detective?”

Allie has to laugh at that, at the absolute fucking irony, and Harry laughs, too. And it feels good. To laugh with someone again. It’s been a while. 

“You’re a strange person, Allie,” Harry says after a moment, after the laughter has died down. 

“What do you mean?”

“You are.” He’s looking at her so intently, like he’s trying to figure her out. She can almost guess what he’s thinking:  _ she’s a gangster, but she laughs, but she’s a murderer, but she loves her sister, but, but, but.  _

_ That’s me, alright,  _ Allie thinks bitterly.  _ Full of fucking contradictions. And far too sappy. _

She returns his observation with a joke. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” 

He scratches the back of his head, ruffling those lovely dark curls, and for a moment he looks quite boyish and young. Allie wonders what it would have been like for them to know each other before the war. “I’m not sure yet,” he says finally. “I’m usually quite good at reading people, but when it comes to you?” He shakes his head.

Satisfied, Allie grins. “As it should be. Well, when you figure me out, be sure to let me know.” Harry smiles at her, and she thinks she could probably get lost in those deep brown eyes if she wasn’t careful.

But that’s alright, because Allie Pressman’s as careful as they come.

At least, of course, for a criminal.

She stands up from her chair and reaches across the table to take their two empty cups, placing them in the sink. She’ll deal with those tomorrow. The blue moonlight has shifted to a pale yellow as the sun rises, and Allie thinks she might as well try to get one more hour’s sleep before she’s due down in the offices. 

“That’s about enough chit-chat for this morning, eh, Bingham?” He stands up to help her clean, but she waves him back down. “You’re fine. You just rest. I’m going back to bed.” Allie stops in the doorway, slightly self-conscious again being barefoot in her nightgown. “Goodnight, Detective,” she says, the softness in her voice surprising even herself. 

Harry nods once in her direction, then smiles that charming smile. “Good morning, Miss Pressman.”

“Yes. Good morning.”

Then she’s gone, up the stairs, feeling Harry’s eyes on her back, wondering if she will dream of France again this morning, or something—someone—else entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> was that cute ?? i thought that was kinda cute heheh. 
> 
> p.s. i'm going away to the states for thanksgiving and will be gone 3 weeks, so updates on these two hallie fics may be slow - but there WILL be updates!! i love writing and that doesn't stop when i'm on holiday hahah
> 
> come visit me on tumbr @tommeshelby


	5. two conversations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a chapter that's needed to advance some of the plot -- one of my personal fave chapters coming up next !! hope ya'll still enjoy xoxo
> 
> here we have the introduction of pregnant prostitute-turned-barmaid becca and hard-nosed detective grizz yay i luv them
> 
> also sorry my uploading has been SO sporadic! christmas and new years holidays wreaked havoc on my writing schedule ehh

It’s rare for Allie to visit the New Ham Police Station, on account of her being one of the cities most wanted gangsters, and when she does visit, it’s never for a good reason (re: her encounter with Constable Pemberton). Today is no different.

She walks confidently into the station, razor-hiding headband securely fastened in her up-do, brand-new leather boots clicking on the wooden floor, red lipstick perfectly applied. Two guards at the door to Sergeant Gareth Visser’s office try to stop her from entering, but she just flashes the telegram Grizz sent her asking her to come visit him, and they retreat. 

Grizz stands up from his desk to greet her as soon as she walks in. He’s looking sharp with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, gun holster hanging from his shoulder, floppy brown hair tucked behind his ears. He smiles.

“Allie,” he says, extending his hand across the desk, which she shakes. “It’s good to see you.”

“It’s been too long, hasn’t it?” Allie replies, taking a seat in front of the desk. It wasn’t long ago she was in a similar room in this precinct having a conversation with Pemberton. The feeling of this meeting, however, is much different. Grizz is practically her cousin-in-law—however that works; family, at least—and a close friend. 

“I’m sorry I can’t come down to Cook Street more often,” he says with a sigh, opening his cigarette case and lighting one up, then offering another to Allie. “I miss you all, though. Must have been Christmas last time we were all in one room together.”

“I know,” she says, huffing out a puff of smoke. “There’s always a space for you in the business if you ever wanted it, Grizz, you know that. You wouldn’t have to do anything you didn’t want to do. Sam would keep you safe.” She flicks some ash into the tray in front of them and crosses her stocking-ed knees over one another. “You’d make better money, too,” she adds with a wink.

Grizz leans back in his chair and sighs again. “Oh, trust me,” he says, “I’ve thought about doing that many times. But that life—“ he glances up briefly to meet Allie’s eyes and smiles an apologetic smile. “You know what I mean.”

“I know,” Allie grins. “I just like to ask every time in case something changes.” She stubs out her cigarette and leans forward to clasp her hands over her knees. “Alright, on to business.”

Clearing his throat, Grizz opens a drawer and pulls out a yellowed manila folder. He spreads it open on the desk, revealing to her a few pages of typewritten notes and a mugshot of Will. Her heart jumps looking at that face. She sucks in a breath.

“Why are you showing me this?” she asks. “I know he’s been arrested already. It happened weeks ago.”

Grizz shakes his head and points to a paragraph at the top of the page. It’s been printed recently, the ink still dark and fresh. “New information. It’s why I called you in. Read this,” he replies, tapping the page with his index finger. She leans over the desk to read it clearer.

_ “Charged with illegal bookmaking, rackeeting, and murder of the first degree. Trial to be held on Tuesday 2nd September, 1919.” _

“Murder!” she yelps, unable to contain her emotions. “Why the fuck is he being charged with  _ murder _ ?”

Grizz shakes his head. He looks exhausted. “You know I’ve been working to get him out of there. Before, he was only going to be sentenced to ten years. Now, it could be life. Or worse.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “He could hang.”

“He could  _ hang? _ In three weeks’ time? Are you fucking serious, Grizz?” She brings the back of her hand to her face and wipes away the few beads of sweat that have gathered on her brow.

“Allie, I promise I’ll--”

“And you still haven’t told me why he’s been charged with murder.”

“Apparently,” he sighs, stubbing out his cigarette butt and going to light another one. “When he was a boy, back in West Ham, he was involved in another gang. Allegedly, the killing happened as part of his initiation.” 

Thinking of Will--her sweet, sensitive,  _ keep me out of all the bad business _ Will--as a murderer doesn’t sit right at all. She can’t believe it. She doesn’t want to believe it. “How the fuck do they know that?  _ I  _ didn’t even know that. Did he even do it?”

“They seem to have good reason to believe that he did. And as for how they know--we’ve got to be dealing with an informant here, Allie. Someone who knows Will, knows his past, has been close enough to him for this kind of information to come out over a few too many drinks at the bar, or something like that. It’s not good detective work, I can tell you that. The idiots who work here--” he gestures to the unintelligible voices and clacking of shoes on wood that can be heard behind the office door, “--couldn’t find this out if they tried. If even  _ you  _ didn’t know about it--if none of us did--then he’s kept it pretty well hidden. If it’s true that he did, in fact, kill that man.”

Allie could cry. She could fucking  _ cry, _ like the weak-willed woman she knows she isn’t. “So he’ll hang?” She asks, voice quieter now. “He’ll really hang?”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Grizz says, reaching over the desk to take her hand in his. “I promise I’ll do my best to get him out of there. We’ll find the asshole who put him in, and we’ll get Will out.”

Allie nods, then takes a deep breath and stands up from her chair. “Well,” she says, straightening her skirt. “I best get going then. Someone’s trying to break up my family, and I’m going to fucking kill them before they can do it.”

“That’s my girl,” Grizz says with a smile. He stands up and hobbles over to her, his prosthetic leg making an unnatural thumping sound as he steps, and bends down to wrap her in a warm hug. He smells of pine and exotic spices, and she breathes him deeply in. Grizz is one of the few people Allie feels most comfortable with, trusts completely, even though the nature of his job means he’ll always be working on the other side of her family.

“Good luck, Al,” he whispers, pressing a friendly kiss to the crown of her curls. The old nickname—Cassandra’s nickname for her—causes a pain to prick at her chest, and she smiles.

“You too, my friend. You too.”

* * *

It’s hot and sunny the day Allie meets with Harry at The Church, unusual weather for a summers day in New Ham—which sounds sarcastic, but it’s not. New Ham’s so far north the summers are often mild and the winters very harsh. 

And so Allie is sweating buckets by the time she makes the walk down three streets to the pub, pulling at the collared neck of her shirt and fanning herself with one hand. 

“Morning, Becca,” Allie calls as soon as she pushes open the door to the bar. It’s empty inside, seeing as it’s both nine in the morning and a Sunday. Allie has Becca opened the place up especially for her and Harry. No safer place to talk business than in here. 

“Morning, Allie,” Becca smiles as she looks up from wiping the bar to see Allie standing there looking flustered. “Hot outside, huh?”

“Bloody hot. It’s unbearable this time of day. Shouldn’t be how it is.” Allie collapses into a barstool and sighs. “Get me a drink, please?”

“Gin?”

“That’ll do.” Becca quickly mixes the drink on top of the counter, having to stretch her arms out quite far to do so to accomodate for the swelling baby bump that pushes against the bar top. “Thank you for opening up so early for us, Becca,” Allie says as the other woman hands her the drink. She takes a quick sip and finds it’s crisp and fruity, mixed with lemon-lime cordial, just how she likes it. 

Becca just waves a hand in her direction as if to brush off the thank-you. “It’s no problem. I’m just grateful your family has given me a job.” She grabs the cloth swung over her shoulder and uses it to mop up a splatter of spilled gin on the bar top. “Not like I have much to do, anyway,” she grins. “This little fella’s keeping me at home.” She runs her hand gently over the front of her dress, her belly making her look small in comparison. 

“How is the baby doing?” Allie asks, propping her chin up on her palm and taking another sip of her drink. 

“Good, good. Shouldn’t be long now before he’s out into the world.”

“Oh, that’s lovely.” Before they can talk more, the bell rings at the front door, indicating a visitor. Allie spins around in her chair to find it’s Harry, of course. He looks handsome, as he always does, in a grey collarless shirt, dark pants, cap on his head, a few days worth of stubble lining his jaw. He grins when he sees her and tips his hat to her and Becca, then hangs it up on one of the coat racks.

“Good morning, ladies,” he says with a nod at the both of them.

“Morning, Harry,” smiles Becca. “Beer?” she asks as she’s already halfway through pouring him a glass. He takes the cold drink gladly. “Never too early for a beer poured by my favourite barmaid, eh?” he jokes, making the woman blush.

Allie rolls her eyes good naturedly. “You’re a charmer, Bingham, I’ll give you that. Now, let’s talk business.” Without another word, she disappears into the private room at the front of the pub, permanently booked out for the family and which functions as a kind of office for The Society. It’s furnished nicer than the rest of the pub, decked out with red cushioned bench seating and a beautiful mahogany table. Harry and Allie take seats at opposite ends of the booth.

She drains the rest of her glass (yes, it’s early, but it’s also thirty degrees at nine in the morning, and a cold drink goes a long way to making her able to deal with that) and sets it in front of her with a clang. “Right, Harry,” she says, clasping her hands together on top of the table. “What information do you have for me?”

He brushes a lock of dark hair away from his face and looks at her straight. “I’ve got to be honest with you, Allie, I don’t have much,” he shrugs, looking genuinely apologetic. “As you can imagine, people don’t wanna talk about shit like this. But I’m trying my best.”

_ I don’t want to hear anything about trying your best! _ she wants to yell.  _ Will’s going to hang and it’s all my fucking fault! _ she thinks. 

But then she remembers the countless times over the past month she’d been unable to sleep and so stumbled downstairs to make herself some tea, only to find Harry already sitting at the table, or vice versa, and she remembers the hushed conversations they’d had about the past and the future, the quiet laughs they’d shared, the way he’d always look at her like he could really  _ see _ her, like he understood her. She remembers learning about his younger sister Sara, his mother, his life in London, the way he’d smiled so softly when talking about his father. She remembers all this, and she looks at his pained face over the rim of her empty glass, and thinks that she doesn’t want to yell at him at all.

“Okay, then. What’s ‘not much’. Tell me about that.”

Harry takes a swig of his beer before speaking. “Bean Akkad,” he says. “She’s my lead suspect. She has motive to want to see you fall: she runs the biggest gang this side of London, her business often overlaps with yours, you’re in constant competition with each other, and from the investigating Campbell and I have undertaken this past month, she’s definitely got a vendetta against you. Any ideas why?” He says this so innocently, so innocuously, she has to chuckle.

“Sometimes I forget you’re still new to this place,” she says with a wry grin. “I killed her husband a few years back. Shot him right out there in the alleyway.” She tilts her head towards the window. Harry looks at her with a hilariously wide-eyed expression. “What? It’s the way things are done around here,” she argues, raising her hands. “He tried to come here to take over The Church soon after I got back from France. I wouldn’t let him. A fight ensued. Then, well, you know. So yeah, Bean hates me, that’s no surprise.” She leans back in the booth seat and crosses her arms, dirt-tipped fingernails digging into the sleeves of her dress. “I hired you for a reason, Harry. Because I trusted Campbell and he said you were good for the job. I want results, not shit I already know. Will’s going to--” her voice embarrassingly breaks, and she clears her throat. “Will’s going to hang in a month if we don’t get him out of there. And we can’t get it him out until we know who put him in. Understand?”

Chastised, Harry bows his head. “Of course, Allie. We’ll look harder. We’ll make people talk.” He looks so contrite, so strange submitting to her power like this--something she usually demands, needs, wants from people--that she feels uncomfortable about it. For whatever reason, Harry’s different than the average street-rat lackey she uses for jobs around here. He’s become different--through those late night conversations, even just the fact that they live together. She cares for him in a way she doesn’t for many people. This realisation, that she has while admiring his long eyelashes, beautiful hair, the way his throat moves when he drains the rest of his beer, simultaneously warms her stomach and chills her to the bone. 

Because it’s dangerous to feel this way. About anyone. Real fucking dangerous.

“I trust you, Harry,” she says quietly, and his eyes flick up to meet hers again. “Keep your ear to the ground. Keep working hard. Be my eyes around town. Help me with this.”

“Always,” he replies with a careful smile. “Always.”

She escorts him out of the bar with a goodbye, then watches him saunter down the street, flat cap on and sleeves rolled up, saying hello to a few people as he passes, until the door swings closed in her face.

“You’re not going soft, are you, Allie?” Becca’s voice teases from the back of the room. 

Allie pulls her eyes away from the closed door and shakes her head at Becca with a laugh. “No. Never.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i so love this story and i hope you guys do too! something different than the usual and i'm loving writing it ekekkkeeekkk


	6. on the house

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a tiny tiny chapter but i was on a roll last night with writing and so thought i'd post it anyway!
> 
> almost completely inspired by two of my favourite lines from peaky blinders

“You wanna come to the races with me, Bingham?” 

“What? The races?” Harry looks up from his breakfast toast with an incredulous expression. 

“Yeah, Cheltenham,” Allie says, shrugging on her shawl and adjusting her hat. She’s standing opposite the table where Harry is sitting in the kitchen, about to leave for the office. The smell of brewing tea fills the chilly morning air. Another week into this unusual living arrangement, and her and Harry have continued to grow closer as tentative friends. She actually enjoys walking downstairs and seeing his smile, and she often catches herself wondering if he thinks the same about her. These kinds of feelings are not one she’s proud to admit, but they exist, and they must be dealt with.

Granted, inviting Harry to be her date to the Cheltenham Races isn’t exactly getting rid of her unexpected-feelings-problem. Quite the opposite, really. But she figures she’ll take the chance to dance with him, see what it would feel like if things were different and they lived in a more graceful world, and then find another place for him to live so they’re not stuck in each other’s space the whole time. 

“We’ve both been working hard, eh?” she continues, sitting down at the table and filling up her cup with hot tea. “I think we could use some fun. Besides, it’s where Bean the fucking Baker’s gonna be with all her crew. If she’s your lead suspect, as you say, it could be the perfect place to...you know…” she winks, “get some information out of them. And it’s a reasonably safe place, Cheltenham. A copper sees a gun on you out there, it’s twenty years in prison. They don’t want any of our kind messing with those fucking aristocrats,” she spits bitterly. Harry grimaces, too, but more like he’s struck by the intensity of her hatred towards the upper class rather than at the situation. “It’s unlikely she’ll pull something on us. And we can  _ dance _ ,” Allie sighs. “God, I miss dancing. You any good?” She’s talking too fast, rambling, making a fool of herself, probably. Harry doesn’t seem to notice.

He smiles at her. “It’s been a while but yeah, I’m not too shabby.”

“Good.” She quickly finishes the rest of her tea and stands up again, tucking a few stray blonde curls under her hat. “It’s next week Wednesday. You’ll need a new suit for it, yeah? 

“Suppose I will,” he grins. 

“Right, well, here’s two quid for the suit,” she says, digging her wallet out of her dress pocket and pulling out two notes.

“If I’m going to Cheltenham I’ll need more than a two-bob suit, eh? Don’t want to make you look bad, especially since I know you’ll be looking beautiful.” There’s a lightness to his tone and a spark in his eyes. Is he flirting with her? “I want three.”

“Three quid? Who the fuck do you think I am?” she teases. Her actions say otherwise as she slides a three pound notes over the counter to him. He’s a right charmer, this man, and she finds she doesn’t mind it one bit.

“I feel a bit like a whore,” he jests, pocketing the cash with a grin.

“Everyone’s a whore, Harry,” she replies with a sigh, only half-joking. “We just sell different parts of ourselves.”

“Hmm. I suppose you’re right,” he says, eyebrows raised. She shrugs her shoulders, nods goodbye, and makes for the door. “Wait!” he calls, making her spin around to face him again. “Won’t  _ you  _ need to buy a dress?”

“Oh, I don’t buy dresses. My dresses are on the house, or the house burns down,” she winks, putting her wallet away and straightening her dress. 

Harry wears an expression that one could only describe as both slightly terrified and slightly aroused. “I see,” is all he says before turning back to his now-cold toast.

Almost out the door, Allie turns back to catch his gaze again. “Hey, one more thing.” He tilts his head to the side as if to say  _ go on, what is it? _ She’s briefly enthralled by those hazel eyes of his, bright even from across the room, before remembering her thoughts from earlier. “When you moved here, I promised this living arrangement would only be temporary. I just realised I never followed through on that promise. Would you like to move somewhere else? We’ve got a flat in Kent Street you can have.”

Harry’s eyes flick over her body, just for a split second, just enough for her to notice. Then, his eyes turn to the rifle stacked beside the kitchen counter, and the big wooden cupboard next to it against the wall. In that cupboard are no fewer than twenty different weapons of all shapes and sizes. One late night, after a few drinks, she’d got a few of them out to show him. He’d been in the army and had fired guns, of course, but the thing she’s got locked up in there were unlike anything he’d used before. He looks back at her with a soft smile. “I think I’d feel safest if I stayed here with you.”

And it’s absolutely humiliating how much that means to her. How her cheeks flush quietly, how her heart beats a little faster. She’s a fucking dumbass for feeling this way about him, but she feels it anyway. “Good,” she says, clearing her throat. “Good. Well, I’ll see you for dinner then, eh?”

She doesn’t bother to look back before stepping out, closing the door, and staring out at the busy street with the voice in her head saying  _ real dangerous, Allie, real dangerous. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "i don't buy suits. my suits are always on the house, or the house burns down" and "everyone's a whore, grace. we just sell different parts of ourselves" are the BEST lines tommy shelby ever spoke hands down thank u
> 
> as always, send me a message on tumblr if you wanna chat or get some spoilers for upcoming chapters. un immense amour will be updated soon too !! xoxo


	7. trust me, cousin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm on a fckin ROLLLL boyos. two updates for my two hallie fics in one day?? FINALLY right
> 
> short one today and no harry but important plot points
> 
> enjoy!!

Allie has been unable to sleep a full night through since she got back from the war. That’s no secret, no surprise. She runs on four hours’ sleep most days and uses the smoke on the odd occasion to quiet her dreams. The news that Will is sentenced to hang doesn’t make sleep come any faster.

Except this time, the smoke doesn’t help, and this time, it’s not dreams of Cassandra lying face-down in the French soil. It’s Will, face white and blue, rope around his neck, feet dangling in thin air.

More than once over the past few weeks, Allie’s had bouts of shivering fits, where she can’t stop her hands from trembling or her teeth from chattering, and she feels cold and sweaty all over, even though they’re in the dusk of summer. She won’t be able to breathe all of sudden. She’ll have to bend herself right over and hug her knees to her chest until the shaking stops, until her mind is clear again. Every time it happens, she thinks she’s dying.

_ You’re just anxious _ , Sam told her when she confided in him over a glass of whiskey one night.  _ You’re not going to die. _

Maybe it’s anxiety. Maybe she really  _ is _ dying: a slow, painful death of guilt and shame, that someone is taking the people she loves away from her, and that she can’t stop it, and it’s all her fault.

She finds out Gordie has been arrested one night when she’s alone with Campbell at the office. 

Becca bursts into the main room where Allie and her cousin are sitting by her desk, talking about the weekend’s races.

“Gordie’s gone!” Becca says, panting between breaths, cradling her round stomach. Her face is red. She’s been running. Allie pictures heavily pregnant Becca, toddling as fast as she can through the streets of New Ham, pushing people out of the way, and she almost wants to laugh — but then she realises the gravity of Becca’s words, and — Gordie? Gone?

“What the fuck do you mean, Gordie’s gone?” Campbell asks in that low, twisted tone of his.

“Gone. Fucking— arrested. Fucking Lexie came in and—“ Becca’s breath is still coming out in a rush.

Allie stands up and pats the back of her chair. “Come, Becca. Sit. Rest. Tell us what happened.” She keeps her voice calm even though her heart is racing.  _ Somebody else,  _ she thinks,  _ I can’t keep anyone safe. _

Becca explains that Constable Pemberton had marched into The Church when Gordie was helping Becca pack the place up with a few of her cronies and had ordered his arrest. She’d started cuffing him before he could protest, and when Becca had, had her pinned like a criminal to the bar while they took Gordie away.

“They bruised me,” Becca complains, lifting up her arm to show them purple fingerprints on the underside of it. “They fucking hurt me. And they took-- they took Gordie--” her breath catches again. She’s going to cry.

“Becca, hey, it’s alright,” Allie soothes, leaning over to rub comforting circles on her back. “We’re going to get him out, okay? Go find Helena and Luke. They should be home. Let them know what happened.” There’s not much reason for her to go now to tell the Holbrooks, but if it gets Becca out and about and calming down (Allie’s sure Helena and her famous homemade herbal tea will sort the pregnant woman out more than Allie could), it’s a good thing.

After the door closes behind Becca, Allie turns to her cousin. “We  _ are  _ going to get him out, right?” she asks, deadpan. 

Campbell looks momentarily out of it, then snaps back to reality. “Yes. Yes, Allie, of course.”

She begins to pace around the room. “They’re toying with me,” she proclaims. “I know it. They’re fucking playing me like a bloody violin. And I can’t do anything to stop it.” 

Campbell follows her and stops her in her tracks, steady hands on her shoulders. “Trust me, cousin,” he says, and it sounds more like a demand than a request. She can’t read his expression, or his eyes. He’s always so guarded. Blank.

She’s never known if she could trust her cousin. Their whole lives, Campbell had always been out to save his own skin, serve his own self interests. But there’s so few people she can put her trust in nowadays, he seems like the only option.

And maybe he’s just charming, but the way he touches her shoulder and squeezes it in a friendly way, looking at her with his signature half-smile...she wants to trust him. She wants to believe him.

There’s not much of a choice, is there?


	8. cocaine and cheltenham

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one reader requested harry in a pinstripe suit and allie in a red flapper dress...well here u go!! i'm sorry it's only mentioned like once but if you can imagine them wearing those outfits the whole time....wow so cool
> 
> enjoy this chapter folks hehe. some interesting developments hmmmmm

It has been a week since Gordie’s arrest and Allie’s conversation with her cousin. So far, both Gordie and Will are safe in prison with their trials still pending. The night terrors don’t exactly ease up, but Allie learns to deal with them as best she can, usually by going downstairs to fix herself a cup of tea to soothe her nerves. Sometimes Harry is down there sipping his own cup of tea, glancing over at her when she arrives through the kitchen door with a slow smile like he was waiting just for her. 

She likes those nights the best. Harry is good company. Allie still hasn’t figured him out, though. He always seems a little reserved, even if he likes to put on confident (and, dare she say, _ flirtatious) _airs when he’s around her. She thinks he has some kind of secret. Something certainly about where he’s come from and what his connection to Campbell really is. Her cousin’s not the kind of person to easily make friends — and especially not friends who will be loyal to him or do something like move halfway across the country for a job investigating gang activity. 

Or maybe he’s got a huge inheritance and isn’t just an ex-soldier boy from London. Maybe he’s running away from some kind of responsibility. Maybe he’s really a posh boy playing at pauper. 

If this was anyone else, Allie would do some more digging on his past. But with Harry — maybe she _ wants _him to be normal, pure, trustworthy, even if it might only be an illusion. If that illusion looks the way he does, smiles the way he does, reaches across the kitchen table to close his hand over hers the way he does, she doesn’t ever want it to fall away. 

Her attraction to him is getting more intense by the day. The morning they’re due to head off to the races together, he leaves his bedroom door downstairs open a crack while he’s bathing, and as she passes by she can’t help but steal a glance. 

Harry sits with his back to her, crouched in the middle of the small copper bathtub, using a sponge to squeeze warm water over his arms, back, head. She notices, not for the first time, the way the muscles in his arms ripple as he moves. The scars she spies are new, though. There’s one long stripe on his shoulder and one wrapping itself around a bicep. She stares, transfixed. How did he get them? Do they still ache like the scar she has on her hip does? The act of bathing is so intimate, she almost feels shameful for intruding on such a moment.

She’s startled by the sound of the telephone ringing and springs away from the door before Harry spots her. Face flushed with the heat of embarrassment, she rushes over to the telephone in the kitchen and lifts the receiver to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Allie. It’s Luke.”

“Hey, Luke,” she greets, softening at the comforting sound of her friend’s voice. Every time the phone rings nowadays she braces herself for a message from the police station telling her Gordie and Will are going to hang. “What do you need?”

“I’m calling to finalise plans for tonight,” he replies, and the use of the phrase _ finalise plans _ makes it seems like he’s discussing a trade on the stock market, not organising a jump on Bean’s men tonight at the races. “Jason and Clark want to know if they can bring their Webleys or if we’re going for knives.”

“I don’t want any fighting tonight, Luke. Not at Cheltenham. Just -- you can rough them up a little, but I want information, not blood. Blood won’t get Gordie or Will free.”

“I know, Allie, but we’ve got to bring some kind of protection. The Baker’s boys are ruthless.”

She sighs. “Fine. But you’re not planning on going through the front with guns are you? ‘Cause there’s no fucking way they’ll let you in.”

“No, no. Of course not. Jason’s got a plan to sneak us through. So -- guns? Or knives?”

“Knives. Jason’s plans don’t always work. And I don’t want any more of you boys going to prison because of me.”

Luke is quiet on the line for a moment. Then he whispers, “It’s not your fault, Allie. You know that, right?”

It is her fault. It really, truly is. But he’s trying to be kind, and she’ll give him that. “Helena’s making you soft,” she chuckles, hiding a watery voice.

They say their goodbyes and she hangs up the phone just in time for her to turn around and see Harry exiting his room in only a pair of trousers, towelling his hair.

“Morning, Allie,” he greets her with a smile, not caring that he’s half naked or her cheeks are red again. “Who was that?”

She clears her throat and wills her cheeks to go back to their usual colour. “Luke,” she replies. “He wanted some clarity on how tonight will go.”

“With Bean Akkad’s crew, you mean?” he asks, towel thrown over his shoulder as he makes himself a slice of toast. Allie nods. “I’ve spoken to Luke recently, too. I’ve told him what I know about Bean, told him what questions to ask. He’s a good man.”

Allie smiles. “He is.” She watches him spread butter on bread for a moment, admiring again the shape of his body. _ This is dangerous _ , the voice in her head whispers. _ You know this is dangerous _. 

But what if she doesn’t care? What if tonight she could pretend she’s a normal girl, and Harry’s a normal guy, and they could dance like normal fucking vanilla people and forget about all this mess. She wants that more than anything. She just doesn’t know if Harry feels the same. 

* * *

At eight o’clock that evening, a car, driven by Sam, arrives outside the flat to pick up Allie and Harry. She feels like they’re a real couple, walking arm in arm down the steps onto the road, she in her red fringed dress with hair curled perfectly, he in the expensive pinstripe suit she bought him. 

Harry opens the door for her and flashes that boyish grin she’s come to love, and she feels like a lady gathering her skirts and stepping into the car. With the business doing well, she can comfortably afford outfits like this -- but it still feels strange to put them on and have somewhere to go.

Allie is nervous that they’ll run into issues when entering the banquet hall at the races. Someone is sure to recognise her, right? But they don’t. They pass through smoothly without a second glance from any security guard. Harry takes her hand and pulls her straight to the bar for a drink.

“Are Luke and the Guard here yet?” Allie asks in a whisper as the bartender pours them both a scotch. 

“I think so,” Harry replies in a voice of the same tone. “Jason’s apparently got it all sorted.”

“Jason’s our muscle, but he’s an idiot,” Allie sighs. “I fucking hope this goes well.”

“It will,” Harry says, gently touching the small of her back with a reassuring hand. 

Their drinks arrive, and Allie takes a long sip. She turns around to scan the ballroom. Everything’s gold and glittering and everyone’s dressed in the latest fashions from London, Paris, Milan. The room drips with money. It’s fucking majestic. Chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, red velvet on all the seats, crystal glasses in every hand. She’s never been in such a beautiful room in her life.

That’s when she spots someone familiar.

“There’s Bean,” Allie murmurs, tugging on Harry’s sleeve and subtly pointing in the direction of the Muslim gangster and her posse. They sit around a circular table, and although Bean is tinier than the men surrounding her, she still looks formidable in her silver gown and matching headscarf. “I’m going to go talk to her.” She moves to leave the bar but is stopped by Harry’s hand on her waist holding her back.

“No,” Harry urges. “Leave it up to the Guard to talk to her people. If you go over there, it might get ugly. You don’t want that.” His hand shakes a little as he reaches up to brush a piece of lint from the shoulder of her dress. He looks almost nervous. “I want this evening to be nice. With you.” _ God, he’s really fucking handsome _, she thinks for the fifteth time that day, and Harry must have noticed that she’s practically melting under his gaze because he flashes her that lopsided, cheeky smile again. “Shall we talk about something unrelated to business?”

“I’d like that, I think,” she replies, leaning an elbow against the counter and taking another sip of her drink. Harry mirrors her position.

“Alright, well, what about your horse? Was he racing today?”

“No,” Allie says, shaking her head. “Charley Horse isn’t ready for the big leagues yet.”

“Charley Horse?” Harry asks with an inquisitive furrowing of his eyebrows. “Doesn’t that mean lame? Or is that something else here in New Ham?” Allie doesn’t reply but just laughs, and Harry catches on. “Oh, so it’s _ ironic _. You’re funny, you know that?” he jokes, and she feels light and free, already forgetting about her sworn enemy seated only ten or so metres behind her. 

Maybe it’s just the alcohol, but his eyes look golden in this light. “Our horse trainer, Gwen, says that Charley’ll be able to win the Epsom Derby one day soon. He’s that good,” Allie says, unable to contain her pride.

“Oh? Well, I wish you and your house good luck,” he replies, leaning forward to clink his glass against hers. He’s so close she can smell his aftershave, sweet and woody. Fuck, she’d give anything to kiss him right now.

“Hey, you, uh, want some of this?” Harry says, his voice pulling her out of a daydream. He’s got a hand in his suit pocket, carefully opening it up to show her a little blue vial filled with white powder. “It might help take your mind off of Bean.”

“What? Cocaine?” 

“They call it ‘snow’ in New York. This stuff’s purer than what you can get here,” he winks. 

“And how are you getting this blow from New York?” she asks with her lips twisted into a half-smirk. This is something new. She has always seen Harry as someone purer, more genuinely good than her and her friends. That he was out of place in the life she leads. Maybe she judged too soon.

“I have, uh, connections. Just -- do you want some?”

He looks nervous again. She briefly wonders why, but then he’s looking at her with those deep brown eyes and she finds her mouth saying, “I don’t see why the fuck not.”

He grins and takes her hand in his, holding it tight while they make their way through the crowd of people to the back of the ballroom where there are less bodies and more decorative shrubbery. They sit down at a vacant table far enough away from other people that no one will notice Harry pulling a tiny mirror, razor, one-pound note and blue vial out of his pocket. He carefully crushes the powder even finer with the blade and rolls up the bill.

“Ladies first,” he grins, handing her the paper. With a matching smile, Allie bends down to snort the line of white powder. The urge to cough almost overwhelms her, matched with a burning sensation in her throat and nose, but she shakes these off and hands the bill back to Harry. 

“Strong fucking stuff,” she says in a voice scratchy with powder. The high is kicking in already. She sucks in a deep breath while watching Harry snort his own line and it’s like she can feel every particle of oxygen entering her lungs. The sounds of the party seem louder, the colours brighter. 

Then Harry is leaning over to ask her if she wants to dance and she’s accepting and letting him put his gentle hands on her waist. And he’s pulling her up to standing and not to the floor, and the world is spinning in the most delicious way, and she’s not thinking about anything other than the heat of his body against hers and the sound of the jazz music and the smell of his cologne. 

And then there’s that boldness she’s been looking for, brought on by the effects of the cocaine. Allie pushes up on her tiptoes to brush her lips against his jaw.

“What are you doing?” she hears him say, whispering in her ear. 

They’re surrounded by people, but she feels like they’re all alone. That the music’s just for them. This moment: just for them. _ I’ve seen the way you look at me _ , she thinks. _ I know you’re attracted to me _ , she wants to say. _ Why don’t we just get this over with? _

“Kiss me,” she commands, nose grazing the tip of his ear, and with one smooth movement he has a hand tenderly touching the side of her face, directing her mouth to his, and he is kissing her red-painted lips and holding her tight.

There’s a sense of relief that washes over her the moment their lips connect. Like her body has been prepared for this for a long time, _ waiting _ for it, and it’s finally happened. There’s a release of tension in all her muscles as she relaxes into his body, melts under his touch, lets his tongue sweep into her mouth, opening her up, letting herself go. _ God, _he’s good, better than she imagined, tasting of whiskey and salt and the bitter aftertaste of the coke. They kiss under the shadow of a palm tree leaf for one precious, innocent, wonderful minute. 

She’s wrenched away from Harry’s embrace by someone’s rough hand shaking her shoulder. She turns around to find the hand belongs to her cousin, Sam. He looks worried. 

“Trouble with the boys,” he signs frantically, mumbling the words as he goes. “There’s been a fight.”

Suddenly, Allie is all sobered up. “Shit,” she curses, rubbing a hand over her face. Okay, maybe she’s not completely sober, because her mouth and nose are still numb from the snow. “Shit!” she hisses again, then grabs Sam’s hand. “Take me to them.”

“And what am I supposed to do?” Harry calls after Allie’s fast-retreating figure.

“Stay there!” Allie whisper-yells over her shoulder.

If she wasn’t looking suspicious while snorting coke before, hurrying in heels down a hallway in the banquet rooms at Cheltenham will certainly make her so. She’s still got a tight hold on Sam’s hand and lets herself be pulled by him through the minefield of golden-wallpapered walls while trying to avoid being spotted by security. They finally make it to the men’s bathroom down the very end of the building.

This one isn’t the main lavatory and hasn’t been for a good decade or so, since a newer part of the ballroom was added before the war. This bathroom is decrepit and mouldy, containing yellowed old urinals and, _ oh-- _ a few beaten up bodies who look like they belong to Bean’s crew.

“What the _ fuck _ is going on here?” Allie hisses, staring daggers at the group of young men in front of her. Jason is gripping a knuckle duster that’s coated in blood, Clark’s shirt is ripped and there’s blood on his cheek, and Luke is sporting a shiner on his left eye that’s quickly turning purple, the knife in his hand also covered in dark blood.

“Allie, we can explain--” Jason starts, but Allie holds up a hand to stop him. Even though she’s practically a foot shorter than all the men in this room, she holds all of the power. 

“What did I tell you, Luke?” she shouts. “No fighting!” She turns to Jason. “No fucking fighting.” Then Clark. “No fighting.” Then raises her fists in anger at the lot of them. “_ No. Fucking. Fighting! _” There’s a creak at the door. Harry pokes his head in and opens his mouth like he’s about to ask what’s going on when he spots the bodies on the floor, the boys’ bloody hands, and Allie’s furious face. “And you!” she yells, turning to Harry. “No more fucking cocaine!”

Everyone in the room has been stunned into silence. Seeing her reprimand has had the desired effect, Allie straightens her back, tucks the curls that have fallen from their pins behind her ears, and sighs. “Get this cleaned up,” she says to no one in particular, waving a hand at the three unconscious men lying underneath the sinks. “Their boss is not one hundred metres away sitting at a table in the banquet hall. Get out of here before she comes looking.” The three Society boys quickly turn and make themselves busy cleaning up the bathroom while Allie turns her attention to Sam and Harry. “Get the car warm for me, Sam. We’re going home.” Her cousin nods and exits the room. She looks up at Harry’s face -- he looks like he’s seen a ghost -- and grabs his hand, linking her arm through his. “Take me home, Bingham.”

They’re halfway to the car before he speaks. “So, what happens now?”

The question is twofold. What happens now they’ve broken the professional barrier and kissed? And what happens now with Bean Akkad and the entire investigation?

“We go home, we sleep off this hangover I know I’m about to have, and we wait for a message from Bean saying she’s planning to kill me,” Allie sighs, like it’s just another day at the office.

“I see,” Harry replies, although it’s clear from the way he clenches his jaw that he doesn’t really. He glances down to meet Allie’s eyes as they walk. “And what about...us?”

Despite everything that’s happened tonight, she still wants to smile. The memory of not too long ago when they were dancing and kissing and holding each other tight is sweet in her mind. “I see two options for us, Bingham,” she says eventually. “We forget this ever happened, or we take it one day at a time.”

He doesn’t reply, for they’ve arrived at the car, but the way he touches her waist when helping her into her seat and the way he holds her hand as they drive back to New Ham tells her he doesn’t scare so easily, and he’s not going anywhere any time soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listening to the official peaky blinders soundtrack really got me in the mood for this chapter. look it up on spotify to listen while reading - soooooOOOOOO fckin GOOD
> 
> the "no fucking fighting" scene is hands DOWN the funniest in the entire series. i don't think i did it justice here but if you've seen peaky i hope it gives u a laugh hehe
> 
> also i'm kinda vibing bean as a mob boss..............idk man she just has that energy for me


	9. bruises never lie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another chapter from me within two days.....is this fantasy land ??? wow. i hope you guys enjoy it!!
> 
> no harry (only mentioned) in this one - BUT we get introduced to elle. and we get some juicy plot-developing (potential) family betrayal hehehehhee
> 
> p.s. i promise i'm still working on un immense amour! i feel like my royalty au is my oldest child that i'm very proud of and want to work the hardest at raising (so updates come slower...), a million little battles is my middle child that barely ever gets any attention but probably should (i am actually working on that now for once tho so that's good hahah), and bloody shirt is my baby that gets way too much attention when no one really cares about it HAHA (bad metaphors isolation is making me go INSANE !!!!!!)

The morning after the incident at Cheltenham, Allie meets with Luke in her office.

She feels like shit. And not just because of the massive hangover she’s nursing, but because she woke up this morning to a letter on her doorstep addressed to her from Bean. Encased in a black envelope, the letter read, “Two strikes.”

Two strikes. The first strike, she can guess, was when Allie shot Bean’s husband in the alleyway outside the Church. The second strike was obviously last night at the races. The message is clear -- one more strike, and the uneasy alliance Allie has had with the West Ham gang is over. She’s pretty sure that alliance went to shit as soon as Bean started informing on Allie’s people, but whatever. This third strike can’t happen. Allie knows what will happen if it does.

Bean Akkad may be religious, but her love of God doesn’t stop her from inflicting the level of violence she does on those that have wronged her. Allie’s heard of limbs being severed with the blade of Bean’s long knife, eyes carved out, fingers removed, heads scalped, skin burnt. Perhaps some of these stories are exaggerated, but Allie believes at least a few of them to be true. She saw the deep fury and bloodlust in Bean’s eyes that night in the alleyway. She knows that woman is capable of anything.

Stepping quietly and carefully as if not wanting to wake an angry beast, Luke enters the room and silently sits down on a chair in front of Allie’s desk, head bowed, awaiting a lecture from his boss. 

That lecture never comes. Allie’s too exhausted to yell. Instead, she just takes a long gulp of lukewarm tea and says, “Tell me what you found out. Those beatings better have not been for nothing.” She takes the black letter from her desk drawer and pushes it toward Luke so he can read it. 

His eyebrows furrow in alarm. “Fuck. Shit, I’m sorry--”

She holds up a hand to stop him and groans, rubbing the bridge of her nose with her free hand. “Enough. I don’t want to hear any more apologies. I just want to know if you discovered anything useful.”

Luke clears his throat. “Yes, we did. But it wasn’t what we expected. After we used some, uh, force, they admitted to smashing up our old pub, The Garrison.”

“Wait-- but that was-- that was back in March, Luke. It’s fucking July. I already knew the men who did that were from the Bakery. That has nothing to do with Gordie and Will.” Allie’s giving herself an even bigger headache trying to figure this out.

“Yeah, well, that was what I wasn’t expecting. Then when I asked them about Gordie and Will, they had no idea who I was talking about. I thought they were lying, so that’s why--” he ducks his head and scratches the back of his neck. “You know, we roughed them up a bit.”

Allie sighs tiredly. “Well it’s unlikely they would have known anything about Bean’s plans anyway, right?” She rubs a hand over her face and rests her chin in a palm. “The whole thing was fucked to begin with. I don’t know why I bothered.” She sucks in a deep breath. “Well, thanks for the information, Luke. You can go.” Luke stands up to leave, collecting his cap and placing it back on his head. “Now I’ll have to talk to Campbell,” Allie whispers to herself.

Luke must have heard her, because he stops in his tracks. “Oh, about Campbell…”

“What is it?” she asks, raising one blonde eyebrow.

“He, uh, well...I know he’s your cousin, Allie, but I have reason to believe he’s lying to you.” Although he’s over six feet tall, Luke looks like he’s trying to make himself as small as possible right now. Or at least wishes he was.

The desk chair creaks as Allie leans back into it. “About what?”

“I’m not sure. It may be nothing, but it may be everything.” The hairs on the back of her neck stick up, anticipating something bad. “I don’t think he’s been honest with you, or any of us, about this whole situation with Bean. Some things just don’t add up.”

“Like what?"

“I--I’m not sure--”

“Luke, out with it. If you’re going to accuse my cousin of betraying me, you need to tell me straight.” Despite everything, she still wants to trust Campbell. Still wants to believe he’s out to protect her, not destroy her. Because if she can’t trust her own family, what can she do?

“Things like-- I’ve seen him take extra money from the safe in the gambling den when you haven’t been around, and when I asked him what it was for, he told me it was something to do with the horses. I’ve heard him on the phone in his office many times, and when I enter to ask him something, he hangs up immediately and tells me to get out. I’ve passed this all off as just Campbell’s normal behaviour, but--I think after what I saw at his house this morning, I had to tell you.”

“And what was that?”

“Elle didn’t look good, Allie. Campbell’s been very tense lately. I think that might be transferring to violence. At home.”

_ Shit _ . Elle was Campbell’s wife. She was strange and quiet and had never really involved herself in family business. Allie had always thought that was just her personal preference, but perhaps it was enforced by her husband instead.  _ Just another thing you’ve missed _ , she thinks,  _ another person getting hurt because you haven’t been smart enough to stop it. _

“Okay. Thank you for letting me know, Luke.” With another heavy sigh, she checks the clock on the office wall for the time. “You best be getting home to Helena and your boy for lunch. I’ll see you later.”

Without another word, Luke tips his hat at her, gives her a small, apologetic smile, and exits the room.

Feeling like a ton of bricks have been strapped to her back, Allie groans and sinks down further into her chair. There are many thoughts tumbling around her head, the most pervasive being  _ what the fuck do I do now? _

Cassandra would know what to do. She always did. She’d have seen Campbell’s erratic behaviour from a mile off and dealt with it already. She would have already found the informant, got Gordie and Will out of prison. They probably wouldn’t have ever made it in there if she was in charge like she was always meant to be.

This is one of the many times Allie wishes it had been her facedown in the mud instead of her sister.

But Cassandra’s not here, and so it’s Allie’s boots that will walk their way to Campbell’s house. Whether she wants to or not.

* * *

When she knocks on the front door of the Eliot residence, it’s Elle who answers, not Campbell. Immediately, Allie notices something is wrong. 

Elle’s left eye socket is bruised light blue mixed with cream, like she’s tried to cover it up with concealer but has done a half-assed job. By the stunned look on the petite blonde’s face, she wasn’t expecting to have visitors.

“Afternoon, Elle. Is Campbell home?” Allie asks, having to shout a little over the sound of the late-summer rain that’s started pouring down outside. 

Elle shakes her head. “No. He’s out with Mr Bingham.” Then, face flushed with embarrassment and balancing a toddler on her hip, Elle quickly ushers Allie in and out of the rain. Allie steps inside and brushes away droplets of water that got caught in her hair, then takes in her surroundings.

A tiny, cramped flat, messy and dark, crammed with three young kids, one just a baby, and piles of dishes. Campbell is nowhere in sight. Allie’s here to have a conversation with him specifically, not Elle, but looking at the young woman now she realises maybe she should be first priority.

“How are you, Elle?” Allie asks as the woman makes herself busy (and keeps her face from her cousin-in-law’s view) by putting her toddler down to play and making Allie a cup of tea. 

“Good,” Elle says, although her voice sounds strained. “Do you like sugar in your tea?”

“No, thank you.” Elle turns to hand the cup to Allie but still doesn’t look her in the eyes. She stays standing awkwardly at the end of the table. Like handling a scared animal, Allie gently gestures to the seat beside her. “Come and sit, Elle, you look like you’ve been on your feet all day,” she says with a disarming smile. 

Elle sits but doesn’t look happy about it. She keeps glancing nervously around the room like she is waiting for a demon to appear from out of the woodwork -- a demon named Campbell.

Careful not to startle her, Allie extends her hand across the little table to place her hand over Elle’s. Her skin is cold to the touch and practically translucent, and the back of her hand bonier than what would be usual. Slowly, Elle raises her gaze to meet Allie’s. “What happened with your eye, Elle?” Allie asks in the softest, kindest voice she can manage.

Elle ducks her head again. “I fell,” she replies.

_ Like hell you did _ , Allie thinks, but she just nods and says, “Okay. Listen. I know I haven’t been around enough for you and the kids, Elle, but--” she gently squeezes Elle’s hand, “I’m here for you now.” She leans forward to whisper, “It’s not too late, Elle. You can leave. We can keep you safe. Away from him. You and the kids.” As if on cue, one of Elle’s sons -- four-year-old tow-headed James -- stumbles past, chasing one of his other siblings. Elle watches him pass, a kind of wistful sadness in her eyes. One corner of her mouth turns up into a tentative half-smile, like she’s imagining a life where neither her nor her kids need be scared of their father or husband. Just as soon as that look is there, it’s gone with a blink, and her face resets to the stone-cold fearful expression she’d been wearing when Allie had walked in.

Elle tucks a strand of thin blonde hair behind her ear and looks down at the table, again not wanting to meet Allie’s eyes. “You know I can’t leave him. It’s not an option for me.”

Frustrated tears prick at Allie’s eyes and the thoughts she had earlier when Luke told her about what was happening at the Eliot household enter her mind again.  _ Another one you can’t save, another one you can’t help, another one you can’t get free. _ “Elle, please--”

“No,” comes Elle’s voice, as strong as she can muster, and she meets Allie’s eyes for the first time. “He wouldn’t let me leave with the kids. And I can’t abandon them.” She speaks with apparent and fierce love for her children that it makes Allie’s breath catch in her throat. 

“Okay,” Allie concedes, retreating her hand and cupping it around the warm teacup instead. “Okay. But you have to promise me, Elle, if it gets bad -- you call me. You call Helena, or Becca, or Kelly. We will help you. Okay?”

To Allie’s surprise, Elle nods and whispers an, “Okay. Thank you.”

Allie smiles. “You and the kids are family, Elle. We need to stick together.” She takes a sip of her tea and finds the drink is almost finished. “Thank you for the tea.” She stands up from the table and moves towards the door. As she passes Elle, she reaches down to rest a hand on her cousin-in-law’s shoulder and give it a soothing squeeze. “Remember my offer, will you?”

Before Allie can get to the door, Elle turns and blurts, “I’ve heard him on the phone a lot lately. Someone called Pemberton.”

Allie stops abruptly. “What did you say?”

“Pemberton. I don’t know what for. I only know she calls every Tuesday and Thursday night at eight o’clock, after the kids have gone to bed.”

“That’s-- that’s great information, Elle, thank you,” Allie smiles, although on the inside she’s so angry she wants to punch a whole in the wall.  _ There it is! There it is!  _ Campbell’s betrayal, loud and clear. “Pemberton is the Constable around here. Whatever Campbell and her are discussing, it may prove very valuable to me.” She steps closer to Elle and crouches down so she’s on her level, less-threatening. “You let me know if you hear anything, okay?” Elle nods, a fire returning to her eyes that wasn’t there before. Colour is starting to come back into her face. Perhaps being given a job to do, some way to fight back, makes her feel more human. 

Allie turns to leave again when Elle reaches out a hand to catch the edge of her coat. “Allie--” she pleads. Her eyes are wilder now. “If you’re going to get him, you can’t just arrest him,” she whispers. “You can’t just injure him.” Her small fist clenches around the fabric of Allie’s coat. “You have to  _ kill  _ him.”

And now it’s Allie’s turn to be scared. Scared of this small, fearful, strong woman at the end of her tether. Scared of her husband and what he might do to her. Scared of what that husband might do to Allie. Scared that that husband had Allie’s fucking metaphorical balls in his hands and she’s struggling to figure out a way to change that. 

“Take care of yourself,” Allie whispers back as Elle’s hand unclenches from its fist and the coat falls away from her reach. “Take care, Elle.” 

A single tear falls from the woman’s eye -- beautiful blue eyes that once would have been filled with life and wonder and sweet innocence -- and Allie almost wants to cry herself.  _ What has he done to you?  _ she thinks. Then one of the kids is calling for their mama and Elle’s attention is diverted, leaving Allie a perfect opportunity to slip out the door into the rain. 

* * *

Later that day, Allie finds herself back at the den, helping Kelly (in place of Gordie) set the prices for bets for the next day’s races. Just before they’re about to close up shop, Campbell arrives, there to seek an audience with his boss and cousin. 

“I need to talk to you, Allie,” he says, stumbling into her office with a grin.

“Are you drunk? Seriously?” Allie asks, raising an eyebrow and looking up from her paper-covered desk. 

“What? I can’t have fun down at the pub? I heard you had a lot of fun last night. Am I not allowed to?” Campbell teases, plopping himself down into a chair and opening a bottle of whiskey, sipping it straight from the bottle. 

“It’s good that you’re here,” Allie says, ignoring his comments. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.” She swallows down something that tastes like fear and replaces it with courage. And anger. She should be smarter about this. She shouldn’t be letting him know she doubts him or that she has damning information on him. But she can’t help it. She’s angry, and she wants to see how he’ll react. “I’ve heard you’ve been in contact with Constable Pemberton a lot recently,” she says, going in all guns blazing.

Campbell’s eyebrows furrow, almost imperceptibly, before his mouth turns up into a smirk. “I’m keeping her sweet to keep Gordie and Will from the noose, Allie.” He leans forward in his chair, shooting his cousin a look that would seem amicable. “What did you think? You think I’m gonna turn against you? I’m on  _ your _ side, cousin,” he continues, that smile now turning menacing. “I’m working for  _ you _ . I’m putting my neck and my money on the line for  _ you _ .” He re-stops the cork in the whiskey bottle and points it in her direction. “Don’t forget that.”

She guesses it does add up -- the missing money, the phone calls, everything but the abuse, which is a whole other can of fucking worms. Yet she still feels uneasy. Something’s off, but she just can’t place it. The fear of the unknown is a lump in her throat, a twist in her gut that she can’t get rid of. 

“I’m always on your side, Allie. Take this, for example: I’ve got a man inside the bakery. I’ve got him setting fire to part of her warehouse today. We’re going to scare that fucker into submission,” he grins, like a snake, like a rat, like a fucking idiot. 

And that fear she feels is replaced with bitter anger yet again. “He  _ what _ ? Are you fucking insane, Campbell? I’ve already received a black letter from Bean. You know what that fucking means.” She stands up from the desk and places her hands in fists firmly on the top of it. “I can’t risk provoking her further, not with Gordie and Will still locked up. She’s got connections with the coppers -- who knows what she’ll do! You can’t fucking go around and make plans like this. Are you forgetting who’s in charge here?” she yells. 

“Who’s in charge? Who’s in  _ charge _ ?” he shouts back, standing up and mirroring her pose so they’re face to face. “You’re losing your grip, Allie! You want this to be over? You’ve got to retaliate.  _ Then _ this will be over. Only then. If Bean’s dead, she can’t testify against Gordie and Will. Are you forgetting how this started?” he asks, stepping back and talking a walk around the room while he talks. “She wants you out. She’s working with the police to bring you down through the legal system and soon she’ll revert to force. You better fucking shape up, Allie, grow up, get a grip -- or this whole business will come tumbling down around your ankles,” he turns to point right at her, “and I won’t be here to help you.”

_ He’s lying _ , she thinks,  _ he’s lying, he’s lying. He’s manipulating me. Don’t fall for it. _ “Get out, Campbell. Get the fuck out. And call off that man in the bakery. Now.”

He checks his watch with a smirk. “Too late. Already done.” And then the door is slamming shut behind him, and he’s gone. 

“Campbell!” she calls after him, but it’s all in vain. The office is empty. She sinks back low into the chair and scrunches up her hands into fists in her hair, squeezes her eyes shut, hisses, “ _ Fuck _ !”

That’s a third strike.

If she wasn’t fucking scared before, she is now.

Gordie and Will in prison. Safe -- but only for now. Their trials could go forward any day now. They could hang at any hour.

Elle, trapped in that house with those kids, unable to escape her monster of a husband. 

Campbell, who for some reason Allie is just only now realising is genuinely fucking psychopathic.

Bean, her probable informant, probably also planning an attack on Allie’s life any minute now after seeing one of her warehouses go up in flames. 

All she wants to do now is to go home to her flat and curl up in her bed with another cup of tea and a cold compress on her forehead. And then she wants to see Harry’s face and hear him say hello and ask what’s wrong, and she could tell him everything that’s going on and how she feels like it’s all too much and she can’t fucking breathe-- 

They haven’t talked since last night. He was gone when she woke up this morning, probably off to do some more  _ investigating _ or whatever kind of shit he’s supposed to be doing for her (she’s almost forgotten why he was here in the first place). And then of course to spend time with her fucking cousin. But he held her hand in the back of the car on the way home from the races, he didn’t flinch away when he saw her in that bathroom -- in a room full of blood, yelling at the top of her lungs -- he kissed her cheek goodnight when they got through the door.

Everything has changed between them, now. That’s the one thing she knows for sure. Nothing will be the same.

If Harry is the only good thing that comes out of this entire shitshow she’s found herself in, then it may just be enough.  _ Just _ . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when i hear that you guys are rewatching or watching peaky for the first time bc of this fic my heart literally explodes. if any of you have ideas for literal peaky blinders fics in the future send me that shit on tumblr man i'm desperate for some ideas hahaha

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr @jjmaybank to talk about how much we all love hallie AND, if you'd like, to ask for some spoilers for upcoming chapters (hehe)
> 
> and ofc pls leave a comment or some kudos bc that gives me the warm fuzzies aww


End file.
